Beneath the Porcelain Mask
by pippa-writes
Summary: Nikki de La Chance holds more secrets than the Opera House itself. But when her friend, The Phantom, falls head over heels into insanity over Christine Daae, she must learn to tread lightly around him, a dangerous game when she herself is falling in love outside of the shadows.
1. Prologue

From the perspective of the good Monsieur Pierre Desépines*

Known also as Monsieur Erik.

*legal surname at birth unknown.

 _S_ _t Martin de_ _Boscherville,_ _Rouen._  
 _A_ _ugust,_ _1914._

~•~•~•~■~•~•~•~

I remember Nikita de La Chance as if she was standing beside me only minutes ago. It's exceptionally difficult to forget such a person, even as time rushes on like a country stream, on and on through the years, chipping away at memories as it journeys through the fields of the human mind.

The memories that I have in fullness of her are the ones I treasure the most. To this day, as I lie in my sickbed, watching the birds in the trees outside my window, I can still hear her laughs and her scolds, her humming and her snapping.

Sometimes I like to pretend I can hear her fingers dancing across the ivory keys of the piano in the parlour downstairs, teaching and guiding my own little fingers until they played melodies of their own. If I can't wish myself back to those lessons, I think instead of Nikki teaching my son, Gustave. Now that was a time worth remembering.

I remember every part of her, from her haunting blue eyes to the cascades of chestnut hair falling down her back, and every inch of her face. If I had the strength and will to create, I'd draw her to perfection, with my Christine there beside her, and Jeremy at her other arm, equally as lifelike, breathing and laughing once more.

There is one time, however, that I have sworn never to remember: the time when Paris feared my name, feared the Phantom of the Opera.

I close my eyes and will those thoughts away. Those times caused only pain and grief for us, pain and grief that time had never seemed to heal, like a rift pushed between us that could never close, no matter how hard I tried.

I had always thought Nikki would be here at my side when I died. The thought of her death had never occurred to me until the day it came, the first of us four to pass on. My sweet, sweet Christine was the next to go; I held her hand as she passed on to join her friend. Not long afterwards, amid his heartbreak over Nikki's death, Jeremy fell asleep, clutching the only picture he owned of her and Christopher to his heart. My two children are now away tending to their own families, too busy to think of their dying father.

All too suddenly, I am alone in our house in Rouen without anyone to see me off. And it is only now I realise what loneliness truly feels like. To die with no one to care about you or bury you in love. That trumps living in an attic or a dungeon, I dare say, or listening to the news of the War on the wireless without anyone else to discuss it with.

The Angel of Music, the Angel of Forgiveness and the Angel of Hope have all gone on without me. Lastly, the Angel of Death will tag along after them.

It's so peculiar to think that of all four of us, I, the darkest and most evil, am the last to leave the world. Perhaps it's a punishment from God, to see my loved ones die as I have killed those of so many others.

And no coffin to die in? No underground Lair, or rats scurrying around? No rope around my neck in a hall of mirrors, or a complex trap squeezing me to death like my victims?

 _What a strange end for the Opera Ghost,_ I smile, closing my eyes and drifting off to sleep.


	2. Chapter 1 The Angel of Music

**_"Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing. Her hair was golden as the sun's rays and her soul as clear and blue as her eyes. She obeyed her mother, was kind to her doll, took great care of her frock and her little red shoes and her fiddle, but most of all loved, when she went to sleep, to hear the Angel of Music."_**

 **~ Gaston Leroux, the Phantom of the Opera.**

 **Chapter One, from the perspective of the Hon. Mme. Nikita Desrosiers, née de La Chance.**

* * *

 ** _15 February 1882._**

On the night of Don Juan Triumphant, Erik sang his heart out. His voice alone sent rushes of ecstasy to the women sitting around me, and not even their husbands could protest. But Jeremy sat with tense shoulders, constantly glancing around or biting his nails. Once or twice, his gaze would lift to Raoul and I'd catch them glancing at each other at certain times in the show. More than a few times, Christine would seek me out in the audience, looking as if she was begging for something I couldn't understand or provide, but Erik would be at her side in moments, touching, singing, luring, and once more, she was Aminta.

"What are you doing?" I hissed as Jeremy stood from his seat and edged out to the aisle with muttered apologies to the rest of the theatregoers. I tried to catch his hand, but he moved too quickly, not looking back but walking calmly down the aisle to the side of an officer in the middle of the auditorium. I chewed my lip.

Erik sang on, his proud, strong voice booming around the auditorium, so sensuous it would make even Don Juan quiver. Christine tried not to grimace as she fought the trance he was putting her in, but the creeping of his fingers over her shoulder snatched her breath away and her eyes closed at his words.

I glanced back at Jeremy, whose hissed conversation with the _gendarme_ I couldn't hear from my seat.

 _"Aminta!"_ Erik sang, turning Christine to him. _"The angels weep in ecstasy! Hark, we shall away to-"_

With one deft flick of her hand, Christine ripped his mask off. I couldn't help but gasp. The crowd was silent for a split second.

Then, it happened. The place erupted into deafening screams of disgust, and everyone around me turned their faces away or shielded their eyes from the repulsive sight, the face that was not even a face. After all, what face has no nose and no eyebrows, or cheekbones that protrude alarmingly, with skin covered in bumps, folds and scars?

I stood from my seat uselessly, unable to get to the aisle with everyone panicking. The woman beside me was violently sick all over her dark dress. Another in the row ahead screamed until she went hoarse and fainted in her husband's arms.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jeremy struggling with the guard, wrestling something from him. Erik spotted me at last, his shadowed, sunken eyes wide, and followed my gaze.

Jeremy took careful aim, a steely look in his eyes. Erik ducked as the shot went over his head and splintered the set behind him.

"Shoot to kill!" someone cried. "Shoot to kill, men! Fire!"

A volley of shots rang out from all directions, accompanied by hundreds of horrified screams. I barely caught sight of the _gendarmes_ hiding in the boxes and gallery, filling the auditorium with gunshots, before a surge of people desperate to escape almost trampled me. I jumped onto my seat. Erik scurried across the stage to Christine with a ferocious bark of rage, where she was making a break for the wings. He made to catch her, his fingers so close to her arm and yet-

Jeremy fired the pistol again.

Blood splattered the stage. Erik gave a scream of pain and clutched his arm. He fixed his fiery glare upon Jeremy, amber cinders suddenly ignited into a raging blaze. Christine's steps faltered in horror, a tragic mistake.

Grabbing her in one hand and his sword in the other, Erik fled with a cry of anger as more gunshots followed him off-stage, leaving thick drops of blood on the sets. The torrent of people swallowed Jeremy up.

 _"Shoot him!"_ Raoul screamed, jumping about in Box Five. "Shoot him! And watch out for Christine!"

I struggled against the crowd, fighting to get to the aisle. With my heart in my throat, the screams of hundreds of people in my ears and Jeremy out of sight, I couldn't help but panic. Another chorus of raised voices arose and fingers pointed to the ceiling. I followed their direction. That was the moment my world stopped.

The chandelier was coming down.

* * *

 **Four months earlier...**

 **Paris, 1881.**

 _Clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop._

The rhythm of the shoe-shod hooves against the street and the whirring of the carriage wheels had been lulling me to sleep for three hours now. The only thing that had been keeping me awake was the anticipation of reaching my destination and the fact that after twenty minutes of cleaning one of my daggers, a stubborn crimson stain still refused to fade. I gave up on it and threw it back into my suitcase.

Now, the dirty, horsey and smokey air of Paris filled my nose and I sat bolt upright in my seat, grinning out of the window like a common tourist. The sight that met me still managed to take my breath away, even after ten years. The Paris Opera House was not something one could miss very easily, even from a distance.

My violin case knocked against my leg and I picked it up into my lap, clutching the handle in glee. The driver called a low "woah" to the horse and the clattering against the cobble streets ceased.

I didn't wait for the footman to open the door for me, choosing to jump out myself in delight, seizing the chance to stretch my aching legs. The huge building was as grand and as daunting as ever, yet the word 'family' sprang to mind. And that word alone reminded me of one _specific_ person.

The astonished footman managed to pass me my suitcase without dropping it. I tipped him with a smile and the dying, shrivelling apple I'd been putting off eating. He hid the face of disgust he'd almost pulled, but I was already paying the driver and giving the steed a well-deserved pat on the neck.

Bounding up the steps to the huge oak and glass door, I breathed another lungful of the dirty air I had almost forgotten, though how could I say the same about the mouthwatering scent of fresh bread rolls and cream buns from the _Café de l'Opéra_ across the square?

"Mademoiselle de La Chance!"

I grinned from ear to ear at the sound of that voice. "Madame Giry!"

"How wonderful to see you once more!" she greeted, leaving the safety of the front door to wrap her arms around my shoulders and kiss my protected cheeks. I echoed her greeting, abandoning my old suitcase and violin case to the floor. "But still wearing a mask?"

Ah, yes. My mask.

I liked to think of it as a 'whole-hearted, nothing-left-out' mask: it was a light shade of cream and covered every inch of my face, with the exception of my lips, chin and eyes. I had tied the strings in a neat bow and slipped it under my chestnut hair; though perhaps 'neat' is an overstatement.

I nodded with a grin that hadn't faded since turning onto the _Rue de l'Opéra_. "You know what it hides, Madame. The one downside to my travels, I'm afraid."

"People will think you're related to the Master," she joked, taking me inside.

I only smiled and went after her, touching Gluck's podium as we climbed the steps into the grand foyer. "Thinking is overrated."

"Which country were you thrown out of this time?" she asked over her shoulder.

"Germany." I chuckled at her frown. "And I wasn't thrown out. They'd have to catch me for that, and the _last_ thing they'd do is let me go."

"I don't want to know." She rolled her eyes and turned away, probably heading off to the dance foyer for all I knew. "You two are another sort of evil altogether."

"You do exaggerate," I teased, waving a quick goodbye and walking out towards the Grand Escalier. Out of all the sights Europe offered me over the past five years, this surely had to be the most breath-taking. I smiled at the way the polished steps shone in the candlelight. Gold panels all around glittered like troves of treasure; indeed, the opera house was a treasure in itself.

I touched the bannister, unable to help but run my white gloves along the smooth marble, recalling the days when I'd helped go over these very designs and walked them for the first time. The floor plans were still engrained in my mind's eye, enough that I might be able to walk the house backwards.

Not likely, I grinned, clutching my violin case a little tighter. Five years out of the country wouldn't have helped my memory.

Something feathery light touched my mask, pressing it slightly into my skin. A sharp jolt of pain laced through my face. I snatched the hand, turning it on itself. Whoever was behind me, daring to reach for me like that, yelped in pain. I bent the hand back further, further, until I was sure it would snap with just one flick. Another yelp. I glared over my shoulder and turned to the assailant, not letting go.

A pair of horrified, green eyes stared back at me, coupled with a gaping mouth.

"Touch the mask again," I growled, scowling amongst the laces of stinging that now coursed through my skin. "I insist."

I let the hand go.

The man stumbled back, dropping a few cases to the floor in favour of tending to his wrist.

"Sorry, Mademoiselle," he whimpered, rubbing his wrist where I'd left red marks on his light skin. He managed to tip his cap politely but hissed and went back to his hand with a blush. I glanced at the cloud of sawdust that gathered on my suitcases. "I only meant to catch your attention, Mademoiselle. I'm meant to show you to your room, Mademoiselle."

And he touched his cap again, fiddling with the braces that held up pantaloons, which quite honestly looked ready to fall off his skinny frame.

I shut my mouth firmly, shifting my mask back into place, out of bad habit and routine more than his doing, though he flushed and scurried to pick up my cases.

"Your violin?" he asked eagerly as I followed him through endless corridors to a darker part of the opera house, a hallway with plenty of doors, behind which I assumed were the few bedrooms available. I glanced at my case and nodded, offering him a smile.

"Why do you ask?"

There was the flush again. He didn't meet my eyes, but his smile couldn't have been wider. "I listen to your compositions, Mademoiselle. My friend, Guillaume, he plays them for me when he can. Sad to say I can't play an instrument for toffee, but you-"

He swallowed and stopped outside one particular door. "You've helped me through a lot these past few years, Mademoiselle, without your even knowing it. I can't begin to thank you enough."

I smiled. It was a rare thing for me to do, yet somehow this scruffy stagehand brought it out in me. He had to be in his mid-twenties, give or take; the thick, dark, curly hair most likely made him look more boyish, and if it weren't for the stubble along his chin and over his lips, I'd have knocked even more years off.

He opened the door for me and strode inside, leaving my cases by a wall. I followed, watching as he tried to arrange them neatly, and didn't tell him that I'd be unpacking in a few minutes anyhow. I set my violin case by the door and looked around at my home for the next number of months until I'd find myself with no other option but to flee. It happened every time; I'd just be settled, perhaps have a steady income, and then five, sharp raps would sound at my door and I'd be hauling myself out the window and jumping into garden bushes.

Alright, that was just the once, in Austria, but I didn't see any windows in this room and that disconcerted me. One way in, one way out.

The stagehand completed his little quest for neatness and stood back. A sudden realisation dawned in his eyes.

"My manners, of course!" He extended a hand. "Jeremy Desrosiers."

 _Oooh, Desrosiers!_

"Nikita de La Chance." I offered mine and he kissed my knuckles, bowing slightly; I came up to his shoulder when he stood upright. "The name sounds familiar."

If he blushed any further, he'd turn into a tomato. "My uncle is the Count of Rosiers-sur-Garonne, Mademoiselle. No, please, don't look at me like that! There's nothing to be impressed about with me. I've only the clothes on my back and the sawdust in my hair. Even my little apartment isn't really mine."

 _Oh. Never mind._

"A pleasure meeting you, Monsieur," I said. "I'll remember to play for you at some stage."

Now I was certain he'd turn into a tomato or pepper or something. He fidgeted with his braces and muttered something so indistinguishable, I didn't waste my time trying to decipher it. He made for the door at an awkwardly fast pace, hands flexing at his sides.

"Jeremy!" I called as he crossed the threshold. He froze in place. "I'm sorry about hurting your hand. It's the mask... I have my reasons."

"Of course," he spluttered. "Well, erm... goodnight, Mademoiselle!"

And then he was gone. I frowned and checked the clock on the dressing table. Not even midday.

One really shouldn't meet one's idols. I plonked myself on the cold, hard, single bed and stared up at the ceiling. Nothing good would come of his expectations.

I sighed, tired from all the carriages and long walks I'd taken to get here. My gaze wandered to a beautiful golden statue, surprisingly polished where the rest of the room was dusty. Wings sprouted from his noble back as his eyes gazed up into the heavens. His hands rested together in a silent prayer. A harp sat by his feet, resting against his leg. An angel. An angel, more specifically, of music.

What kind of servant's room had a five foot tall, golden statue of a praying angel casually standing by the wall, seemingly hidden away from the rest of the people here?

Without a second thought, I grabbed the lantern and set it on the floor carefully, laying my gloved hands on the shiny metal and beginning to push.

The angel looked heavy. Indeed, it _was_ heavy, but I hadn't expected it to sit on hidden wheels, masked by the golden robes. It moved much easier than I had expected and I almost toppled over.

It was virtually impossible to stifle my laugh of triumph. There, in the dimness of the candlelight was a cold, dark, narrow and lonely passageway that quickly led to a flight of stone stairs not five feet away from this exit. After the third step, the darkness enveloped the rest of the passageway.

I was a fool. It was obvious in everything I did. Especially in picking up the lantern with a grin and moving the statue back into place once I had worked my way into the doorway. It slid back neatly, stopping as if it was blocked from going any further when it covered the passage entrance entirely. Shining the lantern's flame further down the stairs, I smirked even further and began to step down the stone stairs, the soft candlelight guiding me bit by bit down the tunnel.


	3. Chapter 2 The Music of the Night

_"Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation._  
 _Darkness stirs, and wakes imagination._  
 _Silently the senses abandon their defences._  
 _Helpless to resist the notes I write._  
 _For I compose the Music of the Night."_  
~ The Phantom.

 **Andrew Lloyd Webber, The Phantom of the Opera**

* * *

The lantern broke apart shadows like the wind blew away dust as I walked down the endless flights of stairs to the fifth cellar. Just as I reached one of the final flights, an unearthly sound met my ears.

I paused to listen for a moment, smiling at the sound, and continued to the edge of the lake.

The boat wasn't in the water as I stepped down towards the little dock, which meant he could only be at home. At the sight of the murky water, I grimaced and I retraced my steps to the old passageways, praying he hadn't closed them off entirely.

To my good fortune, I pressed the usual stone in the wall and it moved back, opening to reveal another labyrinthine corridor. I crept it and shut it behind me, following the torches to the other end, a two-minute walk. Eventually, it opened out, and the swell of music almost knocked me flat.

I had been right: the Lair was still practically the same. The front was a wide space I always referred to as the parlour, with a path by the lake edge leading to a furnished corner that housed a vanity table, a cluttered desk, a pipe organ and a door through to the hallway. Beyond the organ, a set of stone stairs led up to a room, the door left slightly ajar. Candles adorned the entire space, lighting it in blazing yellows and oranges. The parlour itself, thanks to those candles and the lake, was warm and humid, the air thick with lukewarm moisture. I stood just by that lake, and shutting the world out of the house stood a great iron gate. The portcullis passageway never failed.

It hadn't changed one bit, I smiled.

The one thing that had changed was the music and its creator. The organ, old and probably about to splinter, stood where it always had, and the figure in black at the seat moved his head to the swelling music, side-on to me.

I smiled even more and leaned against the wall to listen. The man at the organ continued to play, too lost in his work to notice my presence. He began to hum with it, his fingers dancing over the ivory keys like the ballerinas on the stage. I had waited long enough to come back, to see those ballerinas. And to see the Opera Ghost.

And here he was! Good heavens, how he had changed! The seventeen-year-old child I had known was no more, it seemed. He had been replaced by a man that age and ten years, a man who still possessed that childish feverence for opera music.

"All of those defences and you still refuse to safeguard the portcullis passage after all these years?" He jolted and spun to face me, glinting eyes eide and horrified. " _Anyone_ can walk in here, and you know it!"

He blinked, rising from his seat to stare at me with a hanging jaw.

"Kitty," he breathed. "Is that you?"

"Your ability to recognise a friend bowls me over. Truly." I strode towards him. "Why is my bedroom passage cut off? Insolence, child, _insolence!"_

"I didn't expect your arrival so soon," he muttered as I paused to look at the boat moored on the banks of the parlour.

"Oh, _that's_ nice of you! I _told_ you to leave some form of transport for when I would be back! Had you forgotten me that quickly?"

"Nikki, stop touching the boat."

"How is this even sea-worthy?" I asked, rocking it back and forth and listening to the creaks it gave. "Or should that be lake-worthy? Well? Oh, _now_ what are you doing?"

What he was doing exactly, was coming towards me... barefoot.

"Get some shoes on, Erik!" I cried, pushing past his open arms. "Walking around barefoot down here? You're still such a child! Oh, heavens, look at the _state_ of this place! Have I not told you countless times to use a filing system for all this music? Good Heavens, if I find the library looking like a horse's stable, there shall be another war in Paris!"

I didn't pause to watch him roll his eyes, only heard the slap as his arms fell back to his sides.

"You remembered the way after five years?" he asked, whatever little of a smile he had worn disappearing.

"It was easy," I shrugged, flopping down at the vanity table. "I just listened for the sound of heartbreak and lament and followed it."

He rolled his eyes again, bustling to gather large sheets of mechanical and figurative drawings and sort them into a neat stack on the side.

"I saw you getting out of the carriage," he said, catching my eye from behind his mask. "You jumped out like a caged lion. How long were you in there for?"

"Three hours," I replied, "and every second was hell on earth. Now, tea. I've been handled like a jack-in-a-box and I need something to steady myself."

"Your presence has been missed," Erik smiled, echoing my stance and taking my hand to kiss my knuckles despite my playful glare. "Your inability to keep a polite speed in a conversation, however, was not."

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Monsieur," I scolded lightly, pulling my hand away.

He drew back, studying my mask and tracing the dark, painted swirls with a pair of glowing eyes. "You still wear it?"

I bit my lip gently, turning my attention to the sheet music on the organ. "Some scars don't fade, Erik. I need it, you know that."

I stepped away, taking in the parlour instead. "You decorated at last? And my candles are finally being used, I see?"

I wandered up the steps to my old room, but paused to frown at a gown on a mannequin by the door.

Erik shuffled and cast his gloved hands deep into his trouser pockets. "Don't ask; it's merely a... project."

"I trust my bed is still intact after all these 'projects' I've been hearing about?" I chuckled, continuing on to the bedroom area I had designed.

"Still an eyesore," Erik replied dryly, following. I smiled at the sight of my beloved four poster bed and flopped down on the edge. "You wouldn't be able to fathom how many times I decided I would rid this place of it."

I shoved him. "You have absolutely _no_ taste, do you? After all I did for you, you mean to say you wanted-"

A chattering bolt of fur dashed towards me from the wall, making me yelp in shock. I dragged my feet up onto the bed in horror as a small, hairy little mop of chirping fluff stared back at me.

" _Nadir_ ," Erik hissed, picking the little monkey up from the floor awkwardly. The creature's gaze was relentless, totally fixed on me. Between startled gasps, I raised an eyebrow at Erik.

"You called it _Nadir_?"

"It's lonely down here," he replied, fixing the monkey's little red waistcoat. "Unfortunately, he's driving me further insane than the loneliness."

"Does Mr Khan know that you named a cheeky primate after him?"

"He may or may not," he said slowly, picking his words carefully. "I've been exceptionally busy for the past three years. It's been difficult to write to him with such... _limited_ time."

I rolled my eyes; he'd most likely spent all his time building traps or modifying them to his macabre tastes. I rolled my eyes again. At least some things hadn't changed.

"Why does this bed creak so loudly?" I complained as I bobbed up and down on it.

"Why do you think? It's old. Like me." Nadir scuttled out of Erik's gentle hold and climbed my arm in a heartbeat, nestling his little face in the crook of my neck. He chattered happily to himself as I smirked at Erik and stroked his soft fur.

"My bed isn't-"

" _Your_ bed?" He raised an eyebrow and went to prise the monkey from my dress.

"Yes, Erik, _my_ bed. If I recall correctly, you threw a tantrum when I bought it and decided you would rather sleep in a coffin than something like this." I stroked the covers and fell back across the mattress, closing my eyes at the soft mattress beneath me. "And then Nadir - the man, not that little devil - and I foolishly went along with it and built you one. So yes, Erik, it's _my_ bed."

"Of course," he sighed. The bed creaked as he stood up and I peaked through my mask at him. Nadir resisted arrest and instead made himself comfortable in Erik's hair. I almost screamed when that hair began to slide. "If I might inquire about your experiences these past five years?"

I swiped a finger through the dust gathered on the bedside cabinet and frowned at it.

"Very good of you to keep my furniture ship-shape," I said, showing him with a fixed stare. "Does this cabinet have wood-worm too?"

"Come now, I'm not as nirvanic as you think. Now, that tea. Two sugars?"

The bed creaked again as I rocked my weight about. "I'll eat your hat if this mattress doesn't have a microenvironment of some sort. You hear me, Erik? Keep an eye on your fedoras!"

But Erik threw his hands up instead. "You never change! Five years have done nothing to you!"

I canted my head. "I beg your pardon?"

He shook his head, and, despite his annoyance, chuckled. "You didn't listen to a word I said, did you? How many more people have you crossed during our time apart?"

"Of course I listen!" I retaliated, pushing myself from the bed to stand before him. Met with the sight of his black-clad chest, I frowned up at him and poked him in the ribs. "I simply don't care for your advice most of the time!"

Silence.

"Tea?" he tested.

"Two sugars," I replied, flopping onto the bed to stare at the ceiling, thankful that travelling dresses did not require much bustle.

"I am your humble servant then," he grumbled half-heartedly, making for the door.

I picked Monkey Nadir up and fondled his ears. He chirped and chattered happily as I scratched his velvety fur.

"Is he always like this these days?" I cooed. He squeaked as if to pledge his agreement, and I grinned. Erik, paused on the threshold, rolled his eyes, and with a sweep of shadows, shut the door behind him.

"Why _are_ all the passageways only half closed?" I murmured to Monkey Nadir. He chattered a vague reply I could never hope to understand and rubbed his eyes. Without their being fully closed, anyone, who managed to evade all the traps scattered throughout the cellars before they reached the lake, could easily enter if they knew where to step and what they wanted. The House was by no means easily accessible, but for the determined, it was a grand discovery.

For all passageways led to the House, for better or for worse.


	4. 3 Carlotta, who sings like a cockroach

_"Of course, when I use these words, I do not mean to apply them to La Carlotta, who sings like a cockroach and who ought never to have been allowed to leave the Ambassadeurs and the Cafe Jacquin..."_  
 **~Erik, regarding Carlotta's talent in a note to the managers.**

 **Gaston Leroux, The Phantom of the Opera.**

* * *

"This is yours, Mam'zelle," the chief stagehand said, passing me a bucket, mopping cloth and wire scrub for the harder to clean places. He stank of alcohol, one of the worst cases I'd come across. And I'd come across plenty.

"Thank you, monsieur," I nodded, starting to turn away from both him and the equally disgusting cleaning closet. He grabbed my arm and I could have sworn I'd be ill there and then.

"For you," he whispered in my ear, setting alarm bells off in my mind, "it's Joseph."

I pulled a face and wriggled from his grip. He smirked at my disgust and picked his bottle of rum from the nearby self, where he'd put it in favour of picking out my equipment for the day.

"I know a very nice place in the attics of this opera-"

"Thank you but no thank you, monsieur," I snapped, recoiling and heading straight for the door. I knew those attics better than he anyhow. There would be no evening meal lit with candles and adorned with sweet flowers, that was for sure. "Now leave me alone."

Before he could breath a word of a reply, I scurried away to the stage, not stopping until I found the wings. A glance over my shoulder proved that the Joseph man was either lagging behind or still in the cupboard. I breathed a small sigh of relief; even the smell of alcohol made me feel like vomiting. He was a disaster waiting to happen.

I'd speak to Erik about him, for sure.

I dunked the mopping cloth in the warm water and kneeled. This floor was indeed filthy. I sighed and set to work, scrubbing hard.

Ten minutes in and the wings weren't packed with people per say, but I had made sure to stay out of the way of the extras that _were_ there. That being said:

"Mademoiselle de La Chance?"

I looked up, blowing hair out of my mask as it escaped the bun I'd practically failed to tie it in. "Yes?"

"You're late, Mademoiselle."

The owner of the voice was standing a few feet away, fiddling with a length of rope between his hands.

"Monsieur Desrosiers." I smiled, brushing a lock of untameable chestnut hair from the eyehole of my mask.

He tensed and ran a hand down his brace, glancing at the stage and then back at me. My smile wavered and I set myself back to scrubbing.

"Nice weather we're having," he blurted out at last. I frowned slightly at the floor. He slapped a hand over his mouth.

"Yes, it is," I said, scrubbing less harshly now and sneaking a look at him from the shadows of my mask. "A very nice, crisp, autumn morn."

Jeremy zipped his lips and looked back at the stage, biting his inner cheek desperately. I hid my growing grin and stared down at the floor I was scrubbing. He turned awkwardly on his hips, glancing at the few performing actors, then at me, then back to the stage again and hopped a little nervous jig for a moment.

It seemed the dance gave him back some of his courage because he went on to ask: "I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle, but is it my hearing or do you have a slightly Eastern accent, Mademoiselle?"

I stopped scrubbing.

"Why do you ask?" I muttered, keeping my eyes trained on the ground. Jeremy swallowed and stepped back, wringing out his hands around the rope.

"You pronounce your s's and vowels like an Eastern lady, Mademoiselle." He buried his chin in the shirt beneath his waistcoat, peering out at me from beneath his workman's cap. "I'm sorry, Mademoiselle. I didn't mean to cause you offence. Knew a maid from Bulgaria when I was young, Mademoiselle."

Normally, I'd snap at the person who dared comment on my accent. But as I stood, with Jeremy rubbed his chin, still watching me like a submissive puppy, I could only smile at him.

"None taken," I said, and I really meant it. I patted his hand and stooped to pick up the bucket and cloth. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Monsieur Des-"

"Jeremy, Mademoiselle," he corrected gently, tipping his cap and bowing a little way.

"Jeremy. I have been given orders to clean the boxes, Jeremy." Lie. I walked away towards the exit of the wings, heading for the stairs to the box entrances. He masked his frown and stared at the rope instead, a deflated emotion descending on his shoulders and weighing them down.

"Of course, Mademoiselle. Will I see you later? Say, lunchtime? Two o'clock?"

"That would be nice! And for the record, Jeremy, my mother was is Russian, and my father French. I suppose I have the best of both worlds."

Jeremy grinned: off-white teeth between chapped, pink lips that added so much sparkle to his green eyes. He tipped his cap again and walked backwards as not to turn his back in me. What was I? The Tsar's wife or something?

"Be careful in Box Five," he warned, not looking where he was going in the slightest. "Madame Giry usually-"

I was already gone before he crashed into the huge elephant that was being used for the production of Hannibal. Was this what Erik did with his free time? Commissioning gigantic props that people like Jeremy couldn't see if he propped his eyes open with cocktail sticks? Honestly. Sometimes I doubted that boy's sanity.

* * *

Carlotta was butchering her role as Marguerite.

I cringed as she hit the highs and slaughtered the words, not that I could do much better.

I clenched my teeth and cleaned Box Five to my heart's content, making sure my velvet red seats were perfectly rid of the dust and the armrests gleamed in the light of the auditorium. The footstool beneath one chair was beaten to an inch of its velvety life, sending plooms of dust out every time I hit it.

A box of chocolates was left on the sideboard. It was as I popped a seventh – or was it an eighth? – one in my mouth and continued to dust down the panels that Carlotta's caterwauling... stopped.

I peered over the ledge.

Two gentlemen strode through the auditorium, pointing out various parts of interest with their canes and doffing their top hats to the occasional cleaner. Behind them, another two gentlemen, muttering quietly amongst themselves.

"Good, ah, good afternoon!" one of the foremost gentlemen called, his voice wavering as he took in the hundreds of eyes fixed upon him and his company. A podgy little thing, he barely came up to the other gentleman's shoulder, and his thining grey moustache resembled more of a hairy caterpillar than a distinguished gent. I squinted, not recognising him, or the rest of his party for that matter; had Poligny gained weight in the past five years? Carlotta pushed a costumier away with a scowl.

His company nudged him drew himself up to full height. "Take no heed of us, my friends; I'm sure you've heard by now of the newest patrons of the Paris Opera. If I might introduce Monsieur le Comte de Chagny, and... and, er..."

"Raoul," said the shorter of the remaining gentleman, and he took his hat off to reveal shimmering blond hair.

"The _Vicomte_ de Changy," the Count interjected. He cast Raoul a long look.

By now, the entire auditorium had fallen silent, and everyone who may not have been watching the band of gents was by now fixated upon them.

"My brother and I are honoured to support this Opera House in all its financial needs," Raoul said, breaking the silence with a silky voice and shining smile. I rubbed some more polish onto the golden casts until they squeaked. "The arts always held a special place in my late father's heart; I do not doubt Count Philippe and I will be making some sizable donations in the coming months."

The magic words. I rolled my eyes as ballet rats and sopranos alike burst into a chorus of welcomes and appraisals. Money; it was all they wanted. Money was the ticket out of the Opera House, out of poverty, out of the city whose poorer inhabitants were still recovering from the war over a decade ago. For the Opera was where such people found themselves at work.

How was I any better than a street rat, or a prostitute? Even I admitted my pride was long gone.

With the commotion now gathering on the stage, I packed up my bucket and cloths and headed for the door, just as Carlotta so graciously sang for her new audience, a preview of her performance later.

"She's butchering the Jewel Song."

I paused on the threshold, a hand poised to close the dark, wooden door behind me. My eyes flitted to a nearby pillar.

Carlotta hit a high note and I winced.

"And spreading its entrails all over my stage," the voice continued, rough as though spoken through gritted teeth.

"Don't tempt me, you know I'd just complain all day if I start." I set the bucket down and knocked upon the pillar. "Space for two?"

"Only if you intend on putting me out of my misery."

I stood straight and glared at the pillar. "Erik, no! Look past it for once, it can't be that–"

Another high note.

Erik gagged. A muffled thump came from the pillar, where he must have fallen against it. I rolled my eyes. "There's a safe in the kitchen," he said. "Eighty thousand francs. It's yours if you put a stop to this."

I sighed and tried to pry the catch open. "Erik, let me in."

A pause. The lock turned.

I slipped inside the pillar and pulled the door closed behind me. Pressed up against Erik's slender frame, I pulled my mask off and peered through the peepholes at the stage.

"Who are they?"

"Hm?" He looked through a higher set of peepholes and grunted. "Oh, those two. The new managers, I'm afraid to say."

I frowned. "What happened to Debienne and Poligny?"

"They left last night."

What? Why?

He shrugged. "I grew up and they didn't like my living in their basement, but I kicked them out before they could get the first word in." He caught sight of my frown and chuckled. "Good God, you're a sight worse than death!"

I slapped his arm. He clutched it, but only huffed a short laugh. "Besides, I've grown rather comfortable here, you know, after Persia. And the Opera House was getting much too small for all three of us."

"Erik-!"

"Ah, there it is! Your classic scorn. Once got, never lost."

"Do not twist this conversation! Just who are those two gentlemen?"

We shifted about trying to find a comfortable way to fit together in the tiny space. But with Erik's sharp angles and corners sticking out in all the wrong places, and my bustle taking up most of the room, it was easier said than done.

"Messieurs André and Firmin," he said at last. "Two utterly stubborn pigs; it appears I've just hired a younger version of the other two codgers. I must admit, my sense of reasonable choices seems to be faltering. Their only redeeming qualities lie in their previous business management positions, because Lord knows this theatre is in terrible financial grounds. You know, Nikki, I think it should be rather amusing to see Firmin go through his calculations; he is so easily ruffled at the collar!"

I didn't point out that I'd been staying up to date with the Parisian newspapers for the past five years, and the mysterious disappearances of a monthly twenty-thousand francs had not gone unnoticed. "And just how do you know so much about them? A nice candlelit dinner, perhaps? 'Hello, gentlemen, I am Erik, your resident ghost, and before we begin you must pay me no less than five thousand francs to inform you of my little fancies around this House.' Amusing indeed."

He waved an absentminded hand through the air. "Something along those lines."

"Erik–"

"Do calm down! It's true, I was at the farewell dinner last night."

"Erik!"

"Once again, you assume the worst! Not a very good habit of yours, you must admit! Come now, don't look at me like that, I was as quiet as a lamb at that table. They barely knew I was there!"

"That isn't the point!" I protested. "You cannot simply sit in on a party you were not invited to!"

But he waved that off too and reached for the door working his skeleton key into the lock. "Nikita, my dear friend, every party in this House is mine to throw. I have no need of an invitation! Now, if you please, I have work to do and thirty years of life to contemplate. You'll join me for lunch at one."

And with that, I was shooed back into the corridor, just about managing to put my mask back on before the candlelight found me. The hall was exactly as I'd left it, as though nothing had even happened.

* * *

The Opera Ghost was huddled up with his back against the organ when I let myself into my bedroom from the passageway at lunchtime, reading the copy of Edgar Allan Poe's _The Mask of Red Death_ I'd bought him from a newly opened bookstore years ago.

"You look engrossed," I smiled, dancing down the steps to the instrument and flopping down on the stool. He only grunted, refusing to be drawn from the story. I noticed one of my blankets draped over his knees, Monkey Nadir curled up asleep beside Erik's hip.

Monkey hair. I lifted the corner of my mouth as I set my hands upon the ivory keys of the organ, playing softly. How nice. I'd have to sleep in that blanket one night, perhaps sooner rather than later.

Erik sighed and closed the book. He shut his eyes and leaned his head against the panels of the organ, stroking Monkey Nadir carefully. He hummed along to the melody, and after a few bars, I joined in with the words.

He cut himself off and frowned at me. "You _know_ you can't sing."

I shook my head. "I don't need my voice to live off my music."

He closed his eyes again. "Violin?"

"Mhm..." I kept playing.

"Street performances?"

"My speciality."

"You wouldn't know art if it smacked you around the head with a trombone."

I stopped playing as he set the book aside and checked his pocket watch. "You, Monsieur Erik, are beyond insolent. Don't you remember that it was _I_ who first set you at the piano. You've me to thank for the most part!"

And I put my fingers back to the keys, choosing an entirely different melody, Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, as if its soft melody and gentle progression could diffuse any argument that might be brewing.

It worked. Erik shut up for a few minutes.

"Erik?" I said thoughtfully, as the piece went on and allowed some time for conversation.

"Mm?"

"Are you aware that you've employed some... shall we say, _unsavoury_ characters to work here?"

"What are you talking about? And where did that damned monkey run off to? If he's eating my pomegranates again, there will be a mass war like no other in this Opera House!"

Monkey Nadir poked his head around the corner of the passageway that led out to the hallway, chattering like a cheeky toddler and holding a pomegranate.

Erik swore like a sailor.

I stopped the piece again to glare at him.

He seethed but buttoned his lips.

 _Oh, who was that man again?_

"Er... Jules? Wait, no, that's Antoinette's late husband. Erm... Jacob? No, that's not right either..."

Erik raised his eyebrows, which had only half the effect it should have because I could see only one. "Jeremy?"

"No!" I cried. "Jeremy's a good lad! I'm talking about that awful man, the drunkard one. Bucket someone."

"Joseph Buquet?"

I snapped my fingers. "That's the one! I'll have you know he tried to tempt me off this morning!"

"Then you're lucky," Erik said with a shrug, sitting at the organ on the edge of the seat so I could join him by his side. "He's done much worse to other women here."

I shuddered at the thought. "You never had him sacked?"

"Like it or lump it, he's good at his job," Erik said, drawing a few minor chords from the keys, one at a time. "When he's sober, that is."

"You don't seem to like Jeremy much."

"Desrosiers? No. Blithering idiot. Mumbles too much. I can think of better ways to spend a morning and lunch break than watching the corps de ballet humiliate themselves in rehearsals like a star-crossed dreamer." He pushed himself up and had me move up on the seat for him. The silky white gloves came off, revealing long, skeletal fingers, yellowed and scarred. They set upon the keys and coaxed a quiet melody from them. I breathed an involuntary sigh and he chuckled beneath his breath.

I swallowed and sat straight. "What does he do?"

"He's a useless stagehand. Completely besotted with that horse of his. Called it something ridiculous. Navel or some misfortunate name."

I smirked and played the simplest melody I could remember to the bass notes Erik was playing: Mozart's Piano Concerto number Twenty-Three, the second movement

"I'm sure he wouldn't do that," I said halfway through. Erik scoffed.

"He's hardly got the brain to do anything different. Didn't you see him crash into the elephant earlier?"

"Just forget about Jeremy for a moment. What about Buquet? I can't stand the idea of him hanging around up there, watching people... Erik?"

He'd stopped playing the bass notes and was checking his pocket watch again. "There's somewhere I need to be," he said in a gruff voice, standing up and picking the blanket from the floor. He shook the monkey hair from it into the lake and left it there on the damp stone.

"But there are eight whole bars left!" I cried, jumping up from the seat. He was already striding towards the kitchen, where I knew a secret passage led up to the stage. "Erik!"

"Have fun with the imbecile!" he called over his shoulder, and then he was gone, like a shadow at dawn. Even the ghostiness in the air faded and the door to the passage closed with a soft thud in the kitchen.

"Erik...?"

Lunchtime was nearly over anyhow.


	5. Chapter 4 Excuse me, this is my seat

_"Excuse me. This is my seat. I would appreciate it if you left!"_

 **~Charles Dance as Erik Carriére**

 **The Phantom of the Opera (1990). Dir. Arthur Kopit.**

* * *

"Mademoiselle Nikki!"

I glanced around, licking the last buttercream traces from my fingers guiltily; cream buns from _Le Café de l'Opéra_ had forever been my weakness.

I slapped my hands free of the crumbs and turned to face the voice. Jeremy hurried up a corridor at a quick jog, pushing past other workers with quick apologies and blushes.

Was there still cream on my mask? Did I look like a complete idiot? I wiped it just to be sure.

Jeremy caught my arm, doubling over and heaving loud pants. He straightened, flushed with blood and sweat, and placed his hands over the forming cramps in his sides. He pulled his cap off and brushed down his curly hair, sending the dust it had gathered into plooms in the air.

I glanced at the floor I'd just finished sweeping, at the dust he was shaking everywhere.

It was indeed five o'clock and I'd been waiting for Jeremy at the bottom of the Grand Escalier for about seven minutes now, after he'd invited me to dinner for the evening in the nearby café. I'd cleaned the whole thing from top to bottom and wouldn't be surprised if I had hours worth of cleaning to do tomorrow on it too.

"Did you hear about Christine?" Jeremy said as we walked through the entrance hall and stepped outside into the light of the Parisian sunset.

"No, what?" I glanced at his fidgeting hands. No offer of an arm for a lady? This certainly wasn't normal behaviour for a gentleman.

"She's going to be singing in Carlotta's role tonight."

"Oh, really? That _is..._ news." I tried to sound enthusiastic, but I had absolutely no interest in this 'Christine Daae' everyone seemed to be talking about today. _Who is her mysterious teacher? How long has she been training her voice? I heard that one day, she and Marie Antoinette-_

Christine had a nice job now? Good for her. It meant nothing to me and I highly doubted I would hear her name ever again.

The walk to the café was short. The silence that fell between us as we walked, however, was not. Jeremy had taken to staring at his feet as he walked along. I pushed my mask upright by a few inches and glanced at the old buildings nearby.

 _Well done, Nikita. You've successfully managed to rope yourself into an awkward evening meal with a man who stumbles over his own shy words._ Jeremy was hardly a knight in shining armour.

The door to the café swung open with a little ring of the overhead bell. Jeremy held it for me, going red once more and not meeting my eyes when I thanked him. He led me to a table beside the window that looked out into both the square and the Opera House and drew back a chair for me, then took his own seat.

A waiter hurried over with the menu and, after casting the usual wary glance at my mask that I ignored, bustled off to finish his cleaning.

I read through the list of dishes, picking and choosing the nicest ones until I found the best, and, frankly, most expensive dish. I touched my pinny pocket and felt the ten sous I'd snuck from the kitchen, three of which had bought me that delicious creambun earlier; Erik wouldn't miss it, not really.

But then I glanced at Jeremy.

He'd gone pale, paler than usual anyhow, and played with his unshaven straggle of a beard as he stared at the menu. I frowned, watching his finger trace the page.

"Mademoiselle! Back so soon?" Madame Fournier laughed, ruffling my hair that had come loose from its bun.

Jeremy bent right over his menu, shielding his eyes with a hand on his forehead and biting the nails on the other. Madame Fournier frowned and cleared her throat.

"What will Monsieur be ordering today?"

Jeremy whipped his head up, snapping something in his neck. I winced. He cleared his throat.

"Not yet decided, Ma'am. Two minutes, please Ma'am?"

Madame Fournier glanced at me. "Alright... Mademoiselle?"

"Your finest Soup of the Day, Madame!" I said, handing her back the menu with a smile. "Jeremy?"

"My friend makes a wise choice," he said, closing and passing it to Madame Fournier. "I myself was debating whether to take that same dish or the smoked cod. I'll take the same as my companion, Ma'am."

He grinned, bright and young and cheery, with green eyes lighting up as I smiled back.

"And wine?"

"I wasn't aware that was a question," I chuckled. Madame Fournier smiled and hurried away to place our order.

I looked at Jeremy with a small smile, loving the silence between us and the way it gave me time to study him as he stared out of the window.

Frenchmen, as I have learned through my years as the daughter of one and employee of others, are chattiest when they have a glass of fine wine to hand. The evening only proved me right.

"To good health," I said, clinking my glass with Jeremy's and sharing in the smiles that hadn't faded since they'd arrived.

"To the Opera!"

 _And the people who run it._

I sipped my wine, feeling the heat rush down my throat. "So, Jeremy. Tell me about yourself."

* * *

Half an hour passed, then another half hour. And then another. Don't judge me, I'm French. We like food.

By the time my pocket was empty and my stomach was full, I knew enough about Jeremy to know he was, if cripplingly shy at times, a good and respectable gentleman. He'd grown up, as his name suggested, in a traditional French town in the south, near Toulouse: Rosiers-sur-Garonne. He had no living siblings or parents; his mother had died during in her sleep one night and his father—

Well, he hadn't actually given me the details of his father's death, and, being the good person that I was, I didn't press into it.

He usually spent a few weeks in summer with his uncle and cousins in Rosiers, the family with the kind of lineage men practically shoved their daughters into, had their wealth not declined recently when the vineyards suffered a terrible season. And how had he come to work in the Opera? Apparently, his father had become a stagehand after some gruesome family affairs and Jeremy had followed suit, working there since he was ten years old.

I asked him about the horse Erik had mentioned. That was it. The shyness disappeared, replaced by a light in his emerald eyes. He sat up straight. And then came the rambling.

Nevel, he said, was the best friend he'd never had, apart from a man called Guillaume, who didn't really count because he kept trying to pass off the women he'd slept with to Jeremy so the man could 'gain experience from the experienced'. But of course, he refused every time because it was only honourable that a man should marry—

I'll admit, I tuned out. Darkness had long since fallen once Jeremy had run out of praises for Nevel and most of the customers had either moved away or left the café altogether. Jeremy had never struck me as the type of man who could go on and on about one thing for three-quarters of an hour. To cut the long story short, he'd had learned little to nothing about me, which I wasn't complaining about.

"I think it's time to head back now," Jeremy said, snapping me from the trance I'd been in over Erik for six minutes. "Don't want to miss the show!"

I chuckled. "No, of course not."

Jeremy wrapped my shawl around me, which would have been sweet had he not hesitated and thrown it haphazardly over my shoulders with no clue whatsoever. Never mind, I thought as he paid for the food and opened the door for me. He seemed pleasant enough to be friends with. Erik was all well and good, but there was only so much conversation one could have with him before an idea slapped him in the face and he dashed off, often mid-conversation, to compose.

Yes, a new friendship would be a breath of fresh air. I took Jeremy's arm and let him lead me back to the House, giggling at a remark he made about the Apollo statue on the roof.

There was one thing I couldn't understand about our dinner together as we strolled back to work, Jeremy to his next shift and I to my warm, comfortable Box Five: _le Café de l'Opéra_ do not serve, and never have served, smoked cod.

* * *

Crowds could never be truly silent. As I snuck up the stairs to the ornate landing, heading straight for Box Five, the people beneath me in the auditorium were creating a noise to wake the dead. I smiled and picked up some trailing fabric from my evening gown, making my way along to the Box. _Home Sweet Home,_ I smiled, opening it with a quick push.

A very surprised Vicomte de Changy swivelled his head around to stare at me from the frontmost chair, where he had previously been leaning against the wall beside him. The Comte turned from the box wall, his forehead creased at the sight of me. I stopped short, just as shocked as they, and swallowed nervously. Oh Lord, if Erik knew they were in here...

 _"Excusé moi, Monsieur le Vicomte,_ " I whispered as politely as I could, "but you're sitting in my seat."

A moment of shock descended upon the box. Raoul made to spring from the seat to offer it. Phillippe pushed him back down with a finger to the forehead.

"You're a maid, aren't you?" he said dryly, his eyes raking up and down my body. "I wouldn't have thought maids were allowed to watch the operas from a Box."

I felt my face flush, grateful - for once - for my mask.

"Monsieur le Comte, I really rather must insist on–" I started but he cut me off by holding up a halting hand.

"I did notice on my way it that the stairs need cleaning" he said, fixing his white glove. "Now, we wouldn't want the managers hearing of this…" He gestured to my dress. "Dress up. Would we?" My jaw clenched, making my teeth grind quietly. Raoul smiled sheepishly and mouth a guilty 'I'm sorry!' Phillippe waved his fingers at the door. I ignored the Vicomte and marched my way out of the box, down the hall with a fire in my veins, passing Madame Giry on my way. I was gone before she could ask.

They would pay for that. I wasn't sure how, but they would.

* * *

An hour later, I was scrubbing furiously at an arrogant piece of dirt that had decided to fasten itself to the floor. Muttering curses at it, I scrubbed harder, the cloth I was using already full of muck and dirty water.

Erik hung people when he was angered, apparently. I pretended they were the dirty rags I used to clean the foyer floor.

 _You're a maid, aren't you?_ The Count's words echoed through my mind, only making me grit my teeth and push on. Finally, the mud vanished under my cloth and I dunked it in my bucket in triumph.

"Frowns do not become you."

The whisper sounded right in my ear. I glanced over my shoulder at the empty foyer, save for the odd staff member that bustled through.

I stopped scrubbing momentarily, but it was a moment he noticed because I heard a faint chuckle. Scowling, I picked up the bucket and stomped down the stairs to hide beneath the _Grand Escalier_ , kneeling once more to continue my work out of sight.

"Aren't you meant to be watching the opera?" I snapped, feeling him move through the foyer, hidden in the shadows by the walls. I didn't look up, didn't waste my time trying to find the hidden ghost. "Don't be such a pest!"

"Easy, tiger," the water in my bucket chuckled. I pulled a face at the new cat joke and glared at my reflection. I was being sassed by a bucket of dirty, lukewarm water; I needed a new job.

"You're Mephistopheles incarnate," I grumbled, though I hadn't the heart nor the courage to mean it. I set the cloth to the floor once again and resumed my furious scrubbing.

"Don't remind me. So, why is Kitty unhappy? Did someone steal your cream?"

"No," I snapped. "They actually stole my seat."

If I hadn't still been scrubbing the floor with a devilish fury, I would have taken delight at his pause.

"Box Five?"

"The one and only." I sat back on my heels.

"Who took it?" His voice hardened suddenly. I imagined Erik with a furious stare half hidden behind his mask and a rope stretched between his hands. It was enough to put a flicker of a smile over my mouth and I looked away, pretending he wouldn't already have seen it.

"Your wonderful new patrons" I replied coldly. "Told me I didn't need to sit in the Box. You watch out for them, Erik, just you watch out for them, or something inexplicable and terrible might happen to them one day! Clean the foyer, indeed! I'd like to see those two on their knees down here!"

"Fie, fie, fie!" he pretended to mock, shaking a melodramatic fist up towards the auditorium. I let my head fall at an angle to regard him dryly. "Oh, don't give me that look, Kitty! I thought everyone knew that box is eternally reserved for my purposes!"

I spluttered and scoffed at that. "Well, tell _them_ that."

I felt his stare lift from me.

A terrible silence descended upon the foyer.

"Erik?"

Through the walls, I distantly heard the orchestra playing beginning the final act.

"Erik!"

No answer. He'd vanished into thin air.

I rolled my eyes, gritting my teeth adamantly. He wouldn't make me get up, no sir! I wouldn't follow his goose chase tonight!

A few minutes later though, he returned.

"Box Five," he purred, and I looked up so quickly that something in my neck pulled; he was the picture of nonchalance, leaning against the far wall, just watching me, "is at your disposal."

I sat back on my legs, eyeing him warily. "Erik, what did you do?"

"Do?"

"Yes, _do_! You always _do_! Usually without rational thought."

"Your box," he repeated dryly, "has been vacated for your enjoyment. Now,–" he picked his pocket watch from his waistcoat and flicked it open. "–you have fifteen minutes to the end of the show. Are you going to stay there with your hands in that bucket, or make use of the best seat in the house?"

"And be a suspect in whatever court case you've probably just set up?" I tossed the short strands of hair that liked to hang by my face away from my chin. "I don't think so! My name has already been registered on too many government lists. Hard as it is to believe for you, I don't particularly want to add it to another for a while."

At this, he stood up straight, his arms tight by his sides. "After all that? You ungrateful cow!"

My jaw hung. I glared at him for that. "Brash mule!"

"Gruesome siren!"

"Fopdoodle!"

"Jeremy!" He pointed over my shoulder. Without meaning to, I turned, knowing the millisecond I moved there would be no one there. The passage closed behind me with a soft thud.

"You impudent scoundrel!" I cried, hurling the sopping cloth as the wall, where it left a splatter and flopped uselessly to the floor.

It was going to be a long night.


	6. Chapter 5 He Sang to Me

**_"In sleep, he sang to me,_**  
 ** _In dreams, he came._**  
 ** _That voice which calls to me,_**  
 ** _And speaks my name."_**  
 **~ Christine Daae**

 **Andrew Lloyd Webber, The Phantom of the Opera.**

* * *

I tossed my empty bucket and sopping cloth into the storage room and let the door swing closed with a halfhearted flick of my hand. Something in my lower back cracked and seethed as I turned to trudge back down the hall towards the few dormitories the Opera House had going for it.

I hissed and placed ginger hands just above my bustle. Why exactly had I signed up for this malarkey?

 _Oh..._

Amid the haze of my mind, half awake and half asleep, I found myself hauling myself down a fifth flight of stairs, maskless, and groaned. Why had I come down here exactly? I scolded myself for walking right past my bed, but it was too late to turn back now.

If I found my fourposter full of monkey hair, I'd–

Well, sleep would be in order, that was a given, but _then_ I'd have Erik's guts for garters!

* * *

"Kitty Cat, Kitty Cat, where have you been?" Erik greeted me fifteen minutes later as I practically dragged myself into the Lair and shot him a deathly glare. "You're the worst sight this night that I've seen!"

"Opera Ghost, Opera Ghost, don't be so mean. I've been upstairs making your Opera House clean," I snapped back, not caring whether I rhymed properly or not. He chuckled, sitting up straight in his seat at the organ. Composing, no doubt, even at this stupid hour of the night. Why didn't that surprise me? I rolled my eyes and decided not to question his body clock.

Erik's eyes narrowed as they zeroed in on my face and he opened his mouth. I held my hand up, continuing my walk towards the bedroom.

"Erik, I'm cold, I'm tired, I'm going to sleep. Wake me up in three days, please."

Then came something I never expected. Erik twisted in his seat with a look of horror and was up in a flash, dashing over with his long stride and catching me by the shoulders.

"You can't sleep here tonight, Kitty!" he hissed, trying to tug me away. I snorted and fought his grip.

"What the hell? That's _my_ bed, what are you-"

"Please!" he hissed, twisting me to look him in the eye. "Just go back upstairs!"

I stared at him. Go back upstairs? Could he not see how tired I was? Ignorant child! I yanked myself out of his hold and turned, taking the steps up to my room two at a time.

 _"Kitty!"_ he hissed again, coming straight after me. I ignored his attitude and opened the door with a firm turn of the doorknob. Erik drew a sharp breath as I stepped inside.

I almost screamed.

"Oh!" someone yelped. It moved to clutch a robe to its form. I stumbled back. The mask returned to my face in an instant.

The _It_ in question was a woman.

A silence to end all silences crashed down upon my bedroom. We stared at each other in abject horror, as if we were both an apparition to the other.

Erik swallowed behind me and gestured to her.

"Nikki," he started, his voice dry and cracked, "this is Mlle. Christine Daae. Christine, Mlle. Nik–"

I slapped him.

"A...A pleasure to meet you," Mlle. Daae managed, offering a shaking hand. I cast a sidelong glance at it, then back at her perfect, porcelain skin – not Parisian skin, no – and masses of dark curls piled on top of her head. Her eyes were fixed upon my mask. I scowled and turned away.

"What have you done?" I hissed to Erik, my hands curling and uncurling at my sides.

Another swallow. "She's my student."

"STU–" I couldn't bring myself to finish.

"Monsieur Erik taught me to sing," Christine offered. "I'm sorry if I intruded on your room. I was wondering why Monsieur had an entire room decorated for a lady; I thought he was quite alone down here."

I could only stare at her.

Surely she was an imagination, the workings of an exhausted mind. I rubbed my eyes through my mask, as if that would bring me back to reality, to where Erik had no idea why I'd just slapped him or was raving about a woman in my bedroom.

But no. Christine had stood from the bed now and was desperately trying to fix one of my bathing robes around herself, though we both knew my modesty had been stripped first.

I managed to mutter an apology and back out of the room, pushing Erik along with me.

He found it in himself to smile, the sheepish grin of a child who'd just been caught with their hands in the bread bin.

"Kitchen," I growled, pushing him down the steps towards the organ, and around it towards the hallway door. "Now!"

The hall was just as I'd left it, although mountains of dust had not been swept from the tops of frames that hung various portraits and landscapes, as if he had thrown himself into housework the moment I'd gone to work as to avoid a scolding. I found the first door on the right and pushed it open, herding him inside

"So?" He scarpered to the other side of the kitchen, faking nonchalance as he leaned against the conservatory door.

"You," I hissed, stalking to the two-seater table in the middle of the room and laying my hands upon it. "Erik, I'll kill you for this!"

"She's a student!" he replied, his voice daring to grow stronger.

"My _foot_ she is!" I stepped around the table. Erik scurried away to lean against the oakwood worktop, only a few feet away from the burning stove, where a pot of water sat whistling away. "Watch it, you vazey buffoon! You'll burn yourself!"

He glanced behind himself and stood up straight. "I'm teaching her to sing," he insisted, coming towards me, as if he'd only just realised that he was at least two feet taller than I and he could use that to his advantage. I gritted my teeth and craned my neck to glare into his eyes.

"You pompous," I cried, poking him in the ribs with every word, "insolent, macabre, ruinous, bothersome–"

"Useless, petty, abhorrent creature of terror and indifference," he finished, catching my hand with a sigh. "You're exhausted. Why don't you go back up to bed?"

"That's what I was _trying_ to–!"

I yawned.

Erik canted his head, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Don't you dare," I hissed, raising my hand to point accusingly at his mask. But his grin only grew. "Erik, don't you–"

He didn't. Instead: "Go to bed."

I imitated him under my breath and made for the conservatory door, stalking out past the racks and racks of coats and ties – that fop! This wasn't even the cloakroom! - and up the stairs to my right, half aware that Erik was following at a distance.

But my dress was heavy from sloshed water and hours upon hours of wearing it, and the bustle weighed me down. Against my better judgement, I leaned against the wall.

"Kitty Cat, Kitty Cat, tired and joy-free," a voice purred just behind my ear. "Exhausted and chased; time for sleep, little queen."

I was vaguely aware of a pair of spindly arms hoisting me from the ground, so thin I was sure they might crack beneath my weight, just as my eyes tumbled to a close.

* * *

I awoke as the town clock in the square above my head began to chime the sixth hour and groaned, rubbing my face.

 _Mask. Where is my mask?_

I sat bolt upright, my vision instantly dark and swirling from the rush, and swept my hand to the bedside table, knocking something to the floor. As my sight returned, the mess became clearer, sharper and I sighed.

It could have been worse. A single, red rose, tied at the stem with a black ribbon, lay helpless on the ground, beside my mask and a little note. I picked up the mask and flower and set them aside, regarding the note with a loud yawn.

 _Kitty,_  
 _You do realise that you could have saved us both the dramatics, which rivalled those of Carlotta herself, just by going to bed here? It is not as if I'm not paying your rent for this room. As you have constantly demanded my gratitude for several small tasks in the past, I must now ask you to return that favour. I have no idea what possessed you to walk_ _right past your own bed and trek down here at that hour of the night! Really, Kitty, sleep in the bed I'm paying for!_

 _Also, there is a branch in the passage that leads to your bedroom Down Below. Use that if you so stubbornly wish to descend to Hell rather than the passage by the portcullis: Monkey Nadir has taken up some sort of gothic residence there and I refuse to polish your shoes should you tread in something involuntary._  
 _And, Nikki? Do not bother me today. I intend to spend it with Christine alone and prepare for her a fine little afternoon meal. Heed my warnings: Do Not Interfere._

 _Yours always,_

 _Erik._

At least he hadn't left the flower in a vase.

I swung my legs over the side and grabbed my mask, heading for the little chest which kept my uniform. It shouldn't have surprised me to realise I was still wearing it. Had I not thought to change last–

Last night... Oh no; Christine!

I swallowed hard. What was she doing there? I was reluctant to believe Erik's chaste excuses; he wouldn't simply _teach_ her, no. No, I knew Erik, and there had to be something more. I'd have to find out, and soon, potentially put a stop to it all. He never did anything by halves, ever. Teaching was only half the story.

A knock at the door made me jump as I pulled my corset laces and forced myself into a crisp white blouse and dark skirts. The smell of parchment and candle gave their sourcer away.

"Come in," I called, pulling my mask on and tying it. "Door's open!"

I heard the handle turn behind me, slowly and almost cautiously, as I stuck some pins in my mouth and stared at my reflection in the vanity mirror, wrestling my hair into what I hoped would be a tamer bun that yesterday's. A familiar face poked through the crack he had opened in the door, blushing as if he thought he would catch me in my undergarments. I smiled at the reflection in the mirror.

"Monsieur Desrosiers," I greeted him, taking the last pin from my mouth and sticking it into the mop of unruly bedhair. He went an even redder shade and stared at the floor.

"Mademoiselle de La Chance," he replied in his quiet voice, his eyes peeking at me occasionally from beneath his long eyelashes. "I came to escort you to your work."

I couldn't help but frown, out of curiosity more than anything else. This was a first!

"Very well." I touched my mask as I walked to him to make sure it was in place. "Shall we go?"

He stared at me a moment longer, blinking once or twice as I stood before him.

"Yes," he said at last, clearing his throat and offering me his arm. "I suppose we should."

How quaint! He was like a shy little child. I declined his arm as politely as I could and locked my door behind me. Was this a trick? A decoy of some sort? Erik could pull something like this off very easily, I was sure of it.

Ah, but my suspicions were running wild once more. It was second nature at this point. I shuddered at the memory of Berlin. And Lyon. And Rome. And Sicily. And Barcelona.

And London.

"Who sent you to escort me, Monsieur?"

If he went any redder, he'd turn into a tomato. "No one, Mademoiselle, I came on my own orders. I thought you might need to be shown about a little more. We are currently underground–"

 _I hadn't guessed._

"–and there are said to be labyrinths around here. One must be so careful not to get lost in them–"

 _Especially if it's about three in the morning and you can hardly keep your eyes open._

"You see, the Opera Ghost doesn't take kindly to people wandering about in his domain."

Does he not? So debut sopranos don't count as people, apparently. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at Erik's morals. So Christine had a pretty voice and flawless skin. Woohoo.

We can't all be like Christine.

"I'm certain, Monsieur, that the Opera Ghost won't come after me," I chuckled. "He'll go running for the hills!"

Jeremy dared to glance at my mask, whipping his eyes away as soon as I looked back, and kept walking. His hands balled in and out of fists, sweating slightly. I failed miserably to hide my smirk.

"He's killed people, Mademoiselle," he whispered, lifting his head and straight down the narrow hall. There it was!

"Really?" I whipped my head around to him. " _Who_ , Monsieur?"

"There was one time he killed a ballet dancer," Jeremy whispered, glancing about. The walls had ears. "Seven years ago. I was just a boy, but I remember her."

"Monsieur?"

He smiled, small and forced and meant for my comfort alone, and shook his head. "I knew her personally, that's all. And this man, this _thing_... he's just not safe to encounter. Please, for all our sakes, stay away from any place you aren't shown."

Working my jaw over and back, I nodded. "You have my word, Monsieur Desr-"

"Jeremy, Mademoiselle," he smiled, gently taking my hand and squeezing it. "Just Jeremy. Stagehand."

"Jeremy," I repeated with a small nod, shaking his hand. "You may call me Nikki."

He beamed as we arrived at the stage, where an eagle-eyed Madame Giry watched me out of the corner of her eye from the wings, supposed to be focusing on her warming-up ballet girls.

"Are we friends now, Nikki?"

He seemed so excited and his smile grew brighter. I found myself chuckling up at him and nodding.

"Yes, we are!" I decided. "My friend!"

Jeremy breathed a happy little sigh and turned his face away with a blush. "I need to go," he said, letting my hand go softly and hurrying off towards a flight of stairs, leading beneath the stage. "Guillaume will wonder where I am."

I smiled after him. "Oh, Jeremy?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you for the dinner yesterday. I enjoyed your company."

He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. Pulling his cap down over his face, he disappeared down the steps without another word.

* * *

Christine Daae was not, as some might have you believe, at the rehearsal for her next performance as Marguerite. Rumours had begun to fly about her disappearance; some ballet girls had sworn they'd seen Monsieur le Vicomte de Changy enter her dressing room as they entertained the lesser known spectators in the hall, but a few of my fellow maids had most _certainly_ seen him leave alone.

 _Scandal_ , they were saying, _absolute scandal!_ It made them fall about in laughter at the thought of hot gossip.

She appeared late that afternoon as the first round of practice for the next opera began, flushed and sprinting towards the stage in nothing but a tutu and poorly tied ballet shoes. But still, she wasn't quick enough to avoid the glances and whispers her fellow ballerinas exchanged, starting up more rumours that would soon echo against every wall of the opera house.

I'd stayed out of it, just rolled my eyes, fetched my cleaning supplies from the equipment cupboard and headed out to finish the foyer with another gossip-avoider, Beatrice.

Beatrice was a quiet lady – until, of course, you let her start talking, in which case I hadn't a moment's peace. Occasionally, she would sit back and wipe her dark forehead or mutter a curse at an insolent piece of dirt, at which I would smile and suggest that perhaps the Opera Ghost would make it disappear if she cleaned his box to perfection or left some champagne ready. The next thing I noticed about her was her tendency to go, well, mad over things.

I heard nothing but the tales of the Opera Ghost for the next three hours, in between periods of nothing but scrubbing and the beginnings of a backache.

She was half Jamaican, she said with a proud smile, the third daughter of a Frenchman and his servant-girl-turned-wife. I could only smile at the familiarity of the story and add some remarks of my own, pushing down the slight envy of her darkened skin. The Russian winters had gone right through my mother and somehow reached me in France, making me as pale as marble. Though perhaps my constant glove-wearing didn't help.

Still, cleaning the foyer that time around was much more enjoyable than doing it alone at three in the morning. Beatrice made little snuffles when she worked and, as the morning went on, more noises began to join her. Actors, dancers, cleaners and stagehands to name but a few filed in one by one through the doors, some doffing their hats or sharing a smile or just ignoring us completely.

The morning, despite its horrendous and early beginning, was not as bad as I'd imagined. And then it happened, or rather, Monsieur Firmin happened.

"When I find out who is behind all of this," he cried, striding into the foyer and shaking a letter at Beatrice and I, "there will be dismissals left, right and centre!"

"Monsieur-"

His head whipped around to Beatrice. "What? Can you tell me who hides beneath the pseudonym 'O.G'?"

Beatrice shook her head quickly. "It certainly isn't me, Monsieur. It's the Opera G-"

"Ridiculous!" Firmin said, marching forwards and taking the stairs two at a time. "There's no such thing as ghosts. This is an insolent worker with little to no imagination."

He reached the top of the stairs and turned on his heel to call back down to us: " _I_ don't believe in ghosts!"

With hindsight, he shouldn't have been so proud, because he kicked over another cleaner's bucket when he tried to flounce away. It clattered and clanked down the stairs, water spilling everywhere until it came to a rest halfway down. The maid looked distraught.

"Your bucket," Monsieur Firmin said, pointing at the mess and hurrying up the next flight of stairs to meet André. I glanced wearily at Beatrice, resisting the urge to roll my eyes.

From that moment on, there wasn't much silence. Beatrice and I continued to work as the foyer was flooded with Vicomtes, divas and ballet mistresses, all arguing over a series of notes they'd received from O.G. In a moment of interest, I heard Monsieur André suggesting they 'comply with the instructions' and 'put Christine Daae in the lead for the next opera.'

"That's it," I grumbled as Carlotta threw her hat at André, screeching Italian insults at him. "I can't stand this anymore. Are you coming, Beatrice?"

I gestured to the auditorium entrance up the stairs, watching as she bit her lip and her eyes followed my pointing finger. They wandered to _Monsieur_ le Vicomte and she shook her head.

"No," she said at last, scrubbing one of the cleanest parts of the floor again. "Although, I might catch up with you."

I stood, nodded, checked my mask and picked up my cloth and bucket. "Goodbye then."

Trekking up the stairs and through the middle of the arguing bunch, I tried to shut the cacophony out of my ears. Madame Giry caught my eye as I walked by and glared between her note and I. I shrugged subtly and kept walking, my bucket and cloth to hand. _This day can't get any stranger, can it?_

Wrong. Dead wrong.


	7. Chapter 6 Dancing and Song

_"With feasting and_  
 _Dancing and Song,_  
 _Tonight in celebration."_  
~ Chorus.

Andrew Lloyd Webber, The Phantom of the Opera.

* * *

Jeremy was the first person I saw as I headed towards the stage from the wings, having just swept as much of the floor there as I could. His eyes followed a ballerina as she glided across the floorboards like a swan, silent and graceful with every move. His eyes were not the only ones fixed on her; almost everyone in the wings was watching and snickering.

Christine Daae. Moved back to the corps de ballet just to get back at The Phantom as an act of defiance on the managers' parts. I rolled my eyes. Why her, though? Anyone could sing a few notes and skip about.

I touched my throat. Alright. Perhaps not _anyone._

"Jeremy!" I greeted, walking up behind him. His eyes remained glued to Christine, his hand curled around a rope halter. I reached to touch his back. "Earth to Jeremy Desrosiers!"

He jumped, clutching his chest, his eyes wide. The halter fell with a loud thud. "Nikki! What are you doing here?"

I stared at him and slowly pointed to the bucket and mop. "I work here..."

Jeremy blinked, taking in the sight of my utensils. He murmured a hasty apology and bent to retrieve the halter. I folded my arms casually.

"I didn't know you admired Christine Daae."

He fumbled and dropped it again, staring up at me from his stoop in horror.

"Admire Chris-?" he cried, standing upright so fast he cracked something in his back. His words turned to a soft hiss. I nodded back to the ballerinas as they finished their routine.

"I've noticed you watch all of her rehearsals." He went completely red. He removed his cap and brushed the dust from his dark tousles, moving to his scruffy waistcoat and pulling all the white horse hair from it.

"Every single lunch break, Jeremy."

"It's not Mademoiselle Daae, Nikki," he muttered, looking down at his hands. I raised an eyebrow and reached to fix his shirt collar gently, noticing his deep, green eyes peering at me from behind those long, dark eyelashes. I couldn't help but smile just the slightest and brush a lock of that soft, brown hair from his face. "I came to see... the dancing."

The smile spread across my face like a rash. "The _dancing_?"

It sounded less judgemental in my head.

Jeremy nodded, ducking his head again. I glanced at the finishing routine, at Christine Daae and her untied shoelaces, and frowned. Jeremy blushed and wriggled away from me, putting his cap back on.

"I need to go," he muttered, curling the halter into loops around his hand. "Nevel— Guillaume— I'm sorry, Nikki."

He was gone before I could say another word, carried away by long, hurrying legs. Gone and left me with a spinning, blank mind.

In a daze, I trailed up to the grand tier with my bucket and cloth.

What had I walked into? I'd come to keep a low profile, keep drama at bay for a little while; Fate, it seemed, found it rather amusing to deal me another tricky hand.

And for Heaven's sakes, _what_ was so utterly wonderful about Christine Daae? Did she have _another_ three admirers hiding away somewhere that I didn't know about? I flopped against the pillar outside Box Five, resting my head back against the stone and hearing the hollow knocking echo through it. There were still five hours until the end of my shift.

Five hours...

I thought longingly of the music room in the House, but gritted my teeth and picked up my broom, setting it to the floor defiantly.

 _Five hours_ _; t_ _ime is going to fly_.

* * *

I had tried to ignore the footsteps sneaking about behind me as I cooked a couple of eggs on the stove. But it soon became impossible; I doused the flame, shovelled them onto a pair of Mazenderan plates and turned to face the table.

The table and a surprised looking, frozen-in-place Erik. A dark jacket hung loosely from his spindly frame His dark jacket was open and scruffy, his mask thrown on randomly without the black wig. Above all, the horror of seeing me was spread over his eyes and mouth like the thickest paint France could concoct.

I held his gaze with gritted teeth as the tension grew.

"What are _you_ doing here?" he asked at last, shattering the quietness of the Lair and the _drip drip dripping_ of the water from the parlour lake up the hall. I rolled my eyes and marched to the table, setting the plates down with a loud clatter, one at each end. My chair screeched along the stone as I pulled it out for myself.

"Good morning to you too," I grumbled, digging into the egg white with my fork. He stayed standing, not even swaying in the least bit, watching me with a cold stare. "You can sit down to eat, you know. I'll try not to judge."

 _Drip. Drip. Drip._

He gave me one last frown and drew the chair out, flopping down and averting his gaze to the egg on the white plate. "What's this?"

I raised my head, eyes narrowed behind my mask. "A waxen model of your face. Now eat."

I half expected him to argue with some stupid comeback, but, surprisingly enough he went completely silent, leaving just the sound of clinking forks and dripping condensation for a few moments.

"Why did you come back?" he said suddenly, catching me off guard. I caught myself and rolled my eyes instead.

"Because the Phantom of the Opera couldn't keep his home tidy if he worked at it twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Neither could he cook to save his life. Or he might..." I paused, my fork centimetres from my mouth, "kidnap another soprano Would you like me to continue?"

He huffed in reply, finishing up with the egg and making to wipe his mouth on his sleeve. He caught my glare and snatched up the cloth beside him instead.

"Erik is... is..."

"What is he, exactly?" I leaned forwards in mock expectation, untying my mask and leaving it on the table at my side. Erik's eyes slid away from my face. "An idiot, perhaps? Maybe foolish? Doesn't think about the risks that kidnapping a cast member come with? Is he an impudent, disrespectful, unmannerly little-"

"Sorry," he muttered, toying with his jacket cuffs before he found my gaze. "Erik is very sorry, Kitty. He only meant to have dinner with his student."

I glared at him until his amber eyes averted to stare at the water basin by the worktop. "And you promise not to bring her down here again?"

He nodded, wiping his mouth on the cloth again. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

 _Drip. Drip. Drip._

"Apology accepted," I said, pushing my plate away and reclining in my chair.

He breathed a sigh and smiled back. "Thank you, Kitty."

I flashed my eyebrows and pulled my mask back on, tying it beneath my loosening bun. Erik moved his chair back, fiddling awkwardly with his gloves.

"Plate," I said, standing up, taking my own and moving around the table to gather his. He handed it up. I frowned at the amount pushed to the side and poked him in the ribs. "Ungrateful man! _I_ cooked all of that, you know! Look at you, you're pin thin!"

Erik huffed a final growl of annoyance and pushed me off completely. He stood and straightened his dark waistcoat.

"I have work to do," he muttered, turning and disappearing through the hallway door.

"Liar," I said, taking the plates to the sink and running a bowlful of water, ready to heat over the stove. Erik may have been smart enough to fix pipes to run clean, drinkable water to the underground caverns, but if he thought I hadn't heard him playing as I found my way here by the light of a lantern, he was very much mistaken.

Then again, I couldn't complain as his music swirled through the cold, lifeless tunnels and vaults while I washed the dishes and cutlery. It rose and fell in such melodic patterns, so dance-worthy I found myself swaying to it more than a few times. As long as he stayed composing, he wasn't hurting anyone. As long as he wasn't hurting anyone, he wasn't being hunted. As long as he wasn't being hunted, I could relax for a moment.

No, I most certainly couldn't complain.

* * *

I slept in my room Up Top that night.

Lie.

I didn't sleep one wink. By midnight, everything in the Opera House had fallen silent. The ballerinas had scurried home, with or without their preferred stagehands, and the rest of the cleaners had long since finished their tasks. Even Erik was probably dozing at the organ Down Below. It was just me, alone in the silence with a mind scurrying about the place like a mouse.

I turned in my creaky bed, listening to the faint chiming of the square clock overhead. With a groan, I pulled the thin sheets up around my head, trying to shallow my breaths in the hopes of lulling myself to sleep. Could Erik hypnotise me? No, that just meant going all the way Down Below and contending with those miles of staircases, probably to be met with a series of sideways glances and not so subtle huffs.

But still, I swung my legs over the bedside, shivering at the coldness that crept up through the thinning rug, grabbed my little black fan and hauled my dressing gown around my shoulders. I'd sort out my insomnia myself, I decided, opening my door and strolling out into the torchlit hallway.

Box Five was not as far as it usually seemed. Perhaps it was my quicker pace or the fact that I didn't stop to regard any of the paintings on the walls this time, but either way, I was pulling the key from my pocket and unlocking the box door quicker than any other night.

With all the lights doused in the auditorium, the box was as dark as the catacombs. Blinded, I tugged the footstool out from beneath the chair and sank into the velvet cushions with a sigh, putting my aching feet up. My mask replaced the bottle of champagne on the nearby glass stand. I poured a glass of the nearby champagne and popped an English chocolate in my mouth, savouring the way it melted against my tongue and oozed down my throat.

I opened my fan with a sharp flick and brushed it through the air, soothing the burning itches that coursed through my skin. Erik had gifted it to me a number of years ago when I'd kept scratching at my sore face, saying the cool air always relieved his itchiness, for apparently he suffered the same sort of plague.

I hadn't reminded him that I had not been born deformed like him, that the burning sensation was a little bit more literal than he made out.

I stayed in the darkness of the box for a few minutes, breathing in the musty smell of audiences long since departed and listening to the clicks of hundreds of bats above the roof. The chair was soft and warm against my nightgown, drawing me further and further into the dark realms of sleep. The burning died down. The fan stopped fluttering. My eyes drooped.

Something on the stage creaked.

I sat bolt upright in the seat, staring into the thick darkness. Another creak. My breath stoppered in my lungs and my heart drummed a bit heavier in my throat. Cold sweat trickled down my forehead. Was my Opera House being invaded? Burgled? Ransacked?I slipped behind the curtain, peeking out just enough to see a dark figure lighting a few little gas lamps at the front of the stage. They backed away and disappeared into the wings. A stool stood centre stage, gazing out at an imaginary audience, alone in the flickering light.

If they were trying to rob the place, they were doing a terrible job of it.

I stayed hidden behind the curtain, watching carefully as the figure reemerged, lugging an easel onto the stage and setting up a canvas. He drew a brush from behind their ear and sat, oblivious to his small audience.

Another man followed and perched himself on the edge of the stage, feet dangling into the orchestra pit with a violin propped under his chin.

And then the music began.

I recognised it almost immediately as one of my own works, a little ballet piece I'd written in Rome, and, half-hidden by the curtain, stood transfixed by his playing. The gentleman at the easel swirled his brush in a pot of water and set to work mixing colours, dabbing them onto the canvas. Unsure what exactly he was painting, but my best guess being the auditorium, a little wave of paranoia swept through me and I backed away altogether.

So _that_ was why he'd been watching the ballerinas.

I slipped out of the Box and hurried down the corridors in the cover of shadows, down the various halls towards my bedroom. No more champagne for me, not for the rest of the year. I only realised once under the covers that I'd forgotten to bring my fan.


	8. Chapter 7 Raging Fire

**_"What raging fire_**  
 ** _Shall flood the soul?_**  
 ** _What_ _rich desire_**  
 ** _Unlocks the door?_ _"_**

 **~ The Phantom.**

 **Andrew Llyod Webber, The Phantom of the Opera.**

* * *

"What's the infamous Opera Ghost doing now, eh?" I leaned as far as I could over the organ to peer at his music sheets. Erik smiled his usual smile: soft, almost nonexistent, and hardly recognisable compared to a frown.

"What he always does," he answered in a quiet voice. "Erik is composing."

"Of course. And speaking of music, where's Christine?"

His pen stopped scratching the parchment.

I raised an eyebrow as Erik scowled, screwed up the sheet and tossed it over his shoulder. It bounced against the stairs once and plummeted into the lake. My chair shrieked as I pushed it back and stood, mirroring his scowl.

"Don't you waste your parchment!"

 _"_ Don't _you_ tell Erik what to do!" he snapped back, standing up as well and towering over me even across the organ. His amber eyes glared against their dark backdrops, one shadowed by his mask, the other narrowed like a prowling cat's.

"Use that tone of voice with me one more time," I growled, scowling, crossing my arms and tapping my foot with clunky echoes against the stone, "and I'll _drag_ you upstairs to explain yourself to the managers!"

Erik held my glare for a long moment. His eyes flicked between my scowling eyes and the neutral mask, as if wondering which Nikki to believe, then back at the stave and, rolling his eyes, set to playing a petulant tune. I stuck my tongue out at his stab of revenge.

The music intensified, reaching, growing to a crescendo like no other. I picked up my pen and began to doodle violently, racing against the melody as it grew darker and darker, louder and louder, faster and faster. Erik slammed his fingers onto the lower scale, creating a dramatic death sequence and glaring at me. I held up the parchment, biting back triumph as his frown set deeper into his forehead.

"Why is there a ballerina hitting Erik with a shoe?" he asked as the walls shook with the vibrations of the death march he'd just composed for me. I frowned and looked back at the drawing.

"That's _me,_ you halfwit! Those are evening clothes, not a tutu! I'm dressed as a box-attendant in this."

"Oh, for Heaven's sakes, Kitty!"

"Don't you think I've earned it?" I interrupted, inserting the doodle amid a pile of other random papers. Erik pressed his head into his hands. "All I've done all my life is scrub floors and polish golden armrests! It's time you repaid me for all the times I got you out of trouble."

"If you turn into a miniature Daroga," Erik snapped, pushing himself back in his chair, "you'll have no job whatsoever _._ And then we'll see just how much you like cleaning."

"Then I'll be down here in a flash and take up permanent residence in the Louis-Phillippe room; I'm thinking a nice pastel pink might suit the walls, with some sort of beige along the panels."

He sighed, looking about the parlour in thought.

 _Drip. Drip. Drip._

"Box-attendant," he said at last, pulling off his mask and abandoning it on top of the organ. I raised my chin, coaxing him on. "If I order your reinstatement, you'll stop pestering?"

"You have my word."

Erik grunted and prepared a fresh music stave. "I'll see what I can do."

"I have something else to ask of you," I said, leaning back in my chair and straightening my gloves. Erik's eyes shifted up, semi narrowed.

"So many requests. Would you like a rope around your neck?"

"Would you like your bedroom painted pink and yellow?" I sat straight in my chair and bundled a few notes together into a folder. "It's Jeremy."

"Finally bored of him?" Erik dipped his pen and went back to composing, scratching it against the parchment with little scuffles. "Erik has other things to do than kill people."

"Don't start. Now, you're aware the poster maker was recently fired." Erik didn't look up. "Well, you'll still need to advertise the productions, and just last night I discovered that Monsieur Desrosiers likes to paint."

The pen stopped scratching.

 _Drip. Drip. Drip._

Erik's voice was quiet and as hard as iron. "What?"

"Don't bother playing that game with me. You have the best pair of ears I've ever known." I set some papers on top of the organ out of the way and pretended to write down some more notes.

"Jeremy Desrosiers?" Erik frowned, staring at me as if I'd grown another head. I looked him dead in the eye and he scoffed. "Have you lost your mind completely?"

"I saw him on the stage last night with an easel and brush. Perhaps he could paint a scene from _Faust_ and use that for a billboard. You _know_ you're still going to need to advertise, Erik; you'd be a fool to refuse! Come with me tonight and see for yourself."

"I already have an evening planned," he said, standing from the organ and straightening out his shirt. I frowned, opening my mouth to remark on that. "If you wish to put more of a burden on his shoulders – and mine, mind you! – you'll need to procure some sort of evidence that he can actually paint."

I waved that away. "An evening planned, you say? Christine?"

The shuffling ceased. "Is there anything wrong with that?"

"It depends," I said, embracing my nonchalant side as I dipped my pen back into the inkpot, "on what you intend to do with her."

I could practically feel Erik glaring as he drew himself up to full height. "I don't particularly care for what you may be insinuating, Nikki."

I frowned behind my mask and looked up at him. He stood the other side of the organ, six feet of towering shadow. The pipes were cleverly placed at the side, connected in such a way only Erik could have been responsible. It meant keeping the top of the instrument free for passing notes back and forth, for eye contact. And for arguments. His amber eyes were narrow, ready to accuse me for every little thing.

"I'm just worried that your dealings with her might amount to something more sinister than love."

"And what do you mean by that?"

"Oh, for goodness sakes, Erik!" I sank back into my chair and tried not to pull my hair out. "I came down here, here being five stories below street level, at two in the morning and found both a dressing woman, where there never normally is one, and a panicking bachelor. What else was I to think? For all I knew, she could have been kidnapped!"

"Enough," he muttered, striding away to the edge of the lake and kicking a loose stone into the water. I stood from my seat and stepped around the organ to lean against the side panels.

"Erik, I'm worried about you! Who knows what she might say, who she might say it _to_! What if she betrays you to _les gendarmes?_ What if she breaks your heart? I can't be here to protect you all the–"

" _Enough_!" His hand lashed out, catching a standing candelabra. It clattered to the floor, sending hellish echoes around the parlour. He kicked the golden frame, sending a lone candle to the floor, and stormed across to the furthest side of the parlour. "For Heaven's sakes, woman, enough!"

"Erik, you cannot simply–" I caught sight of the candle.

For just a moment, time seemed to stand still. My mind stopped thinking, my heart stopped beating and my lungs stopped breathing. I froze against the organ, staring at the wick and dripping wax. My arms crossed over my chest, so tense I wondered whether they'd snap.

I seemed to watch the scene from afar, not myself anymore but a spirit floating in the background, and when I spoke, my words were not my own. "Erik..."

He turned on his hip with a snap. "What is it _now_ _?"_

The flame snuck away from the wick, taking a fancy to one of the sheets he'd abandoned to the floor and biting into it, slowly at first, like the bites of a teasing lover under the cover of darkness. My knees locked, feet grounded in place. Erik followed my stare.

The flame matured, catching the other sheets nearby. A horrified yelp ripped its way free from my throat. I clutched the organ, my heart drumming in my throat.

Erik cursed like a sailor and sprinted back, stamping on as many flames as he could. But they spread, coming right for me. I could only watch on, silent in the folds of time and I crumpled to the floor, burying my masked face in my hands. Every breath came out as a broken gasp, loud and uncontrollable, just one noise amongst the rest of the screaming in my mind. I let out a shattered sob. I couldn't breathe, couldn't _think,_ could only crawl away on shaking arms. Erik jumped about on the flames, picking some papers up and throwing them into the water, dropping others as the wolves tried to snap at his loose shirt.

Smoke. It was everywhere. Filling the house, filling the rooms, filling my lungs. A thick, black soup everywhere I looked. I choked and collapsed to the floor, tripping over the top stair and landing on my chest on the landing. A pair of small hands grabbed me by the arms, hauling me somewhere. Erik...

"It's alright, Nikki," he said, skidding against the stone and hauling me into his skinny arms. He rocked me back and forth like a child, holding me to his chest. "The fire's gone. No more fire."

But it wasn't enough. Smoke wrapped around me, I could smell it through my mask, and the thick, black clouds smothered my vision.

* * *

 _The flame leapt for me._

I gasped and forced my eyes open, the snap of survival shocking me awake. A cold sweat coated my forehead and my head spun like a top. The stone ceiling stared back at me, a patch of water threatening to drip on my mask.

My mask. I sighed and reached to straighten it but winced at the feeling of my skin instead.

"Looking for something?" I turned against the pillow to stare at Erik. He sat beside me on the sheets, his legs crossed at the ankles and nearly hanging over the end of the bed, and passed the mask to me from his lap, keeping the page of his book with his thumb. I groaned and batted it away. Erik shuffled about on the sheets and slipped his hand behind my back. "Sit up, Nikki. And please, cover yourself as you do."

I frowned and touched my side. "Erik, why am I in my underclothes? _Where_ is my corset?"

"What amuses me is how you think you could resume breathing properly with it on," Erik said, catching my worried glare with a small, humourless chuckle. "Why on earth did you feel the need to tie it so tight?"

I shrugged and sat up a little more, leaning against the headboard. "Women always tie them tight. Doesn't mean the gentlemen ever notice though."

"You should write poetry," he said, closing the book with a soft clap and setting it back on the bedside cabinet. "Deep, soulful poetry, right from the heart. Blake would go green and turn in his grave with envy."

He swung himself from the bed and checked his pocket watch. "Six o'clock. There is somewhere I need to be."

I sighed, closing my eyes against a bolt of dizziness for a moment. "Christine, I'll wager."

"She's coming along so well, Nikki," he insisted, tying a cravat. "I wish you could have heard her as Siébel."

"I'm distraught at missing the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Truly."

"If you see her Up Top, at least talk to her. You'll be pleasantly surprised." He straightened his clothes and pulled on his cloak, almost knocking over my books on their shelf as he did so.

There was no getting around this. I could only sigh and mutter an 'I suppose I'll try,' and hope I never had to be held to it. Erik nodded adding a feathered fedora.

Within moments, there was only me in the House on the Lake, which had been tidied throughout: the charred music sheets were thrown into the fireplace in the sitting room, the extra candles had been doused and put away and Erik's room had been cleaned from top to bottom, all clothes neatly folded away in the right drawers.

Six o'clock, I thought. What could I do in three hours?


	9. Chapter 8 Those Two Fools!

_"Come, we must return:_  
 _Those two fools who_  
 _Run my theatre_  
 _Will be missing you!"_

 **\- The Phantom.**

 **Andrew Lloyd Webber, The Phantom of the Opera.**

* * *

"And that isn't the last of it! He sent one just now, left it on the desk while I was out! Listen to this one," Firmin snapped, flicking a small piece of paper open. He pushed his reading spectacles up his nose and cleared his throat.

 _"'I expect Box Five to be reserved for my personal use at_ every _performance, with special permission of use to Mlle d.L. Chance. It is my command that she be given the place of a box-attendant at every performance and be allowed to sit in Box Five to spectate on her evenings off._ '" He set the paper down on the table with a flick of his wrist. "Explain yourself!"

I bit back my smiles and adjusted my mask. I'd been sitting in the managers' office for a number of minutes now, listening to each and every note Erik had sent over the past week as Firmin snarled insults at every demand and their writer.

"I believe he wants me to take a new role as a box-attendant, Monsieur," I said, putting forward my daintiest voice and smile. "I am very honoured!"

"Box-attendant," he growled, slumping back in his seat and chewing the end of his pipe. His eyes narrowed at me and I snapped an innocent smile into place. "Whoever heard of a maid becoming a box-attendant?"

"I'm sure I can manage," I said, putting most of my energy into that sweet little smile.

"I've worked as one before." Firmin shot me a suspicious look. "In Russia. And Germany. I'm not sure how O.G. knows that. But I've done it before." It wasn't a _total_ lie.

Firmin sat straight, his eyes never losing their calculating glare. "And why should I listen to the 'Opera Ghost' when _I_ am the manager?"

 _Oh for_ _—_

I lowered my voice to a murmur. "Well, I know O.G won't hurt me. I was good to him once. He likes kindness, Monsieur. But you haven't done anything for him like that, have you? So, I think it's best if we just do as he—"

The door behind me flew open, hitting the wall with a slam. I jolted in my seat, staring at the flushed and wheezing Monsieur André as he doubled over in an attempt to catch his ragged breath.

"Commands..."

"Gilles!" Firmin cried, jumping from his seat and abandoning his pipe to the table. I glanced at it and pulled my seat away by a few inches. "What the devil were you running for at your age?"

André gasped again and tried to stand upright, leaning against the beam. He pulled a handkerchief from one pocket and a letter from the other, waving it about in Firmin's general direction. I stood and took it from him, offering him my chair.

"It's for you, I believe," I said, passing the note to Firmin. He snatched it from me and muttered something to André, ripping it open and pulling out its contents like a cat slicing open a helpless bird.

I lay a hand on André's shoulder and bent down to his level. "Monsieur? Are you alright?"

He stared up at me, mouth agape and eyes wide, and squeaked, pointing at me in horror.

"Monsieur?" I glanced back at Firmin. He'd set the note down next to his own, as white as a sheet. He handed it to me, collapsing into his seat with a thud.

I snatched the note from him, skimming through the cursive and picking out the important parts. Mlle de La Chance. Good deed. Vicomte de Changy. Box Five. Swift. Won't feel a thing.

 _Erik, I'm going to kill you._ I stared at the letter, no longer reading it but trying to cover the look of anger with fear. _That i_ _nsolent, childish, backstabbing, irrational_ _—_

"He wants to put us under his thumb," Firmin muttered around his pipe. A puff of smoke escaped his mouth in a long jet and disappeared into the air. André, trembling with the shock, reached for the note. The others manager's gaze slid to me and he leaned back in his chair, draping one arm over his stomach and fiddling with the pipe with the other. I handed the note back and straightened my gloves. "He wants to keep us in the dark like puppets. Dogs on leads in the park."

He straightened in his seat, leafing through a number of papers, a virtual catastrophe of organisation. My fingers twitched.

 _Like mother, like daughter,_ Erik had said once, before I'd scolded him for his cheekiness.

"Monsieur," I said, clearing my throat and holding my head high. "Although I understand - and appreciate, of course - the shock you must be experiencing, I must insist that I receive my new contract. I can always continue as a maid until you need me as a concierge. You won't need to... hire anyone new to... fill my... my placement..."

Firmin had begun to shake his head at my suggestion. "Mademoiselle, I do not blame you for this 'ghost's' antics. But after considering the threats that this 'O.G' has made, I've decided that it isn't wise, or noble, to offer you a position as a box-attendant."

 _ERIK_ _, YOU_ _—!_

Oh, he was a man with a price on his head now!

"Monsieur, I—"

But he held up a hand. "I will not bend over backwards for an employee who thinks he can get away with such insolence. Mademoiselle, please return to work tomorrow in your usual uniform."

~•~•~•~■~•~•~•~

Jeremy was ambling up the hall with another man at his side when I let myself out of the office. That being said, there were people all about that hall, and the congestion would only get worse up ahead. He laughed at a joke I'd missed, his emerald eyes lighting up. I glowered, ducked my head and stormed on, pushing my way between them, unable to look at his childish joy.

A hand curled around my wrist, stopping me short in my tracks. I let out a shriek, facing the other man. His beard was yellowing from tobacco, of which he stank. So were his teeth, and his grey eyes were bloodshot, the rosiness of his cheeks only further proving that he drank for France.

"Well, well," he said, drawing me closer. I struggled against him, but his grip only tightened. "What do we have here? Why the mask, _petite fleure?"_ He traced a rose pattern on the porcelain, grinning when I spat in his face.

"Let me go!" I snapped, trying to prise his fingers from my wrist. His shirt was practically open to the thighs, laced with loose braces that only just held up his trousers. I grimaced and glanced at the smarter-dressed Jeremy, who was watching with a look that seemed to be mixed between confusion, amusement and fright. Concern. I nearly gagged.

The man chuckled and pulled me so violently I tripped and landed against his chest. His lips grazed my ear. "I like it when they're feisty."

"That's enough, Guillaume!" Jeremy pushed his way between us and pulled the man's hand from my wrist, sparing him a pleading look before he turned to me. "I'm sorry, Nikki. Guillaume is just—"

"Ah, so _this_ is _la_ _belle mam'zelle_ you keep talking about," Guillaume said, leaning against the nearest wall and crossing his arms. Jeremy paled. He turned to his friend sharply, something that made Guillaume smirk, and looked down at his feet, completely red. "You've really put this one under a spell, Mam'zelle. Normally I break them in and offer him one or two afterwards. Innocent, you see, that's what Jerry is. Innocent as a baby."

He wrapped an arm around Jeremy's shoulders and grinned at me. "Don't worry, Mam'zelle, he's untouched. He chickens out. All that posh upbringing down South, it's set him straight and narrow. Jerry doesn't know the first thing about women."

His eyes trailed down to my hand. "Though I'm sure he's making some progress with _you,_ Mam'zelle."

Jeremy caught sight of our intertwined fingers at the same time I did, only he jumped away and pulled his cap firmly over his eyes. I stood there like a dazed deer, staring at the rifle as the trigger was pulled. Guillaume laughed, throwing his head back.

"Going to teach him the basics, Mam'zelle?" he spluttered. My blood boiled and my face burned behind my mask. Clenching my hands in their gloves, I spared the cowering Jeremy a quick glance.

"At least when all is said and done, Jeremy has manners," I snapped, turning my back on the insolent young fool. "You have none! The only women I can think of who would willingly sleep with you are either very drunk or very desperate."

I left them to themselves in that hall, hurrying up towards the roof. I needed air, fresh air. Fresher than the fifth cellar, at least. I gathered my skirts and hurried up a flight of stairs, walking through yet another corridor towards the next flight.

"Mademoiselle de La Chance?"

What was it? Everyone Coddle Nikki Until She Can't Breathe Or Think For Herself Day? Good grief.

I plastered on a smile and looked over my shoulder at the petite figure of Christine Daae. She stood in a lilac gown, fiddling with her long, ungloved fingers and glancing about. "Ah. Mademoiselle Daae. A pleasure to finally meet you. Truly."

She huffed a little laugh, but the smile fell away and she glanced around once more. "I-I was hoping to find you."

"Were you really?"

"Mademoiselle," she said, stepping towards me with wide, almost frightened eyes. "I must ask you something, and it may sound quite strange but..."

"But what? Spit it out girl, I have places to be."

"Do you know about the Angel of Music?"

I bit my lip. Christine's gaze stayed strong on me, willing me, almost begging for an answer. What did she know? What did she want to hear?

"Christine, I—"

"Please," she said, catching my arm in a flash. I blinked at her hand, mouth agape. "Please. Erik... he told me to speak with you." My eyes darted back to hers, hooded in suspicion. She knew his name then. Her voice lowered to a whisper. _"Hibou et Minou allèrent à la mer—"_

"Alright, alright! I believe you!" I hissed, slapping a hand over her mouth. Why did Erik feel the need to make her recite that poem? In case I wasn't convinced? I sighed and looked up and down the corridor. Taking her hand in mine, I tugged her gently towards the next flight of stairs. "Not here. I find it's too risky to even mention his name on these levels. The roof will be safer."

~•~•~•~■~•~•~•~

"It started seven months ago," Christine said, huddling into her shawl as we sat on the roof, gazing out across the Paris skyline to the Eiffel Tower. "I was just a child, really, and recently orphaned. But I loved to sing; I suppose it was a comfort. I'd sing the songs I always had, imagining my late Papa playing along with his violin. But one day, there was a _real_ violin. I was singing away to the Jewel Song - you know, Marguerite's song in Act Three of Faust? _Air des Bijoux?"_

"I know it well," I replied, straightening my stockings. I'd sworn never to think about the time Antoinette Giry and I had wandered down to the fifth cellar attempting to sing it, drunk as drunk could be. I have to say, the Daroga can handle even the strangest of situations masterfully.

"I was folding away some costumes and tidying the other girls' ballet shoes away, and I'd just reached the part where Marguerite picks up the mirror when a violin began to play along with me. So I stopped singing to look about the costume department, but I couldn't see anyone. And then there was a voice..."

"And he told you to keep singing?" It was a guess, a shot in the dark, but Christine nodded, her eyes falling to her shoes.

"Well, for starters, he screamed _'Enunciate more!'_ from where he was hiding," she said, gazing out at the skyline. Her voice became airy again, lost to her thoughts, and I chuckled.

"He had such a beautiful voice when he'd calmed down. And he instructed me on how to sing the parts I was weakest at. It was the first time I'd ever sung the Jewel Song all the way through. I sounded terrible, but I'd done it! He offered to teach me even more, and I was so lost in my joy that I accepted instantly. Papa always told me of the Angel of Music, that he'd send him to me from Heaven. I asked the Voice if he was my Angel. He went quiet for a moment and I was scared that I'd frightened him off back to Heaven, but then he said 'Yes, child. Your father sent me to teach you how to sing.'"

I spluttered, imagining the look of confusion and horror Erik must have pulled when she asked him that. I recalled the time in Rouen, when I'd asked him not to wear his mask because I was fascinated by his face. Silence.

"But, just the other day, I made my debut," Christine went on. "I got back to my dressing room in a daze and he was already there, waiting for me. I'd sung my soul out for him – I told him as much, too – and I was exhausted." She huffed another chuckle and, for the first time, I saw a scared, breaking woman instead of an innocent little actress. I bit my lip again and looked away. "The next thing I knew, I was Down Below."

"He didn't... hit you?" I muttered, daring to ask it yet unable to picture it. "Knock you unconscious, I mean."

Christine shook her head. "Oh no! He'd never do that to me! Never! But I followed him down without really thinking about it." The smile fell from her face suddenly. "But he wasn't an Angel. No, he's just a man. A man called Erik. He even threw himself at my feet when I cried in despair, trying to comfort me with proclamations of undying love."

I'd thought the revelation would relieve her somewhat. But Christine seemed to deflate in on herself.

"I found you asleep in the parlour bedroom," I said, clearing my throat when my voice cracked from the dryness that had gathered. Christine looked back at me, still fiddling with her dress. "Erik doesn't mean any harm. Believe me. I... I've known him for a while."

I looked away from her childishly inquisitive gaze. "Oh, Christine... he's in love with you, you know he is. I've never seen him so smitten."

"How long have you—"

I waved her question off before she could finish. I'd already strayed too far from the set script in a single conversation.

"Unimportant," I said, getting up from my seat on the roof. Christine caught my hand.

"Promise not to tell anyone about this," she said. Her eyes both threatened and adored, as if she'd snitch on me if I so much as said a word. What frightened me was how innocent she seemed while doing it. "Not Messieurs André or Firmin, not Raoul, not even Erik. Promise me, Nikki!"

"Erik probably already knows," I said, dropping her hand and heading back towards the door. Her glare burned into my back as I went; as charming as Christine could be, she was just as cunning and intelligent. "But I promise. Good evening, Christine."

~•~•~•~■~•~•~•~

I turned my key in the lock, wincing when it gave a low moan. Biting my lip, I paused to check the hall; an unlikely threat at this hour of the night. All clear. I turned it further.

The lock clicked. With a muffled screech, the door swung open. I stuck my lantern into the darkness, dispelling shadows to the furthest corners.

If Erik wanted proof, I'd find him some!

In the faint light of my dying wick, amid the dust and drapes of the old storeroom, stood an easel, its canvas covered by a length of fabric.

I shut the door behind me and followed my light to the treasure. A thick layer of dust flew into the air as I pulled the fabric away, taking care not to damage or move anything else; Jeremy was a stagehand, and surely he'd notice anything out of place.

I squinted at the shapes and held my lantern closer. A near perfect auditorium stood before me, drawn and painted to the extent that I felt I could stick my hand into the painting and touch the velvet seats, the gold carvings on the boxes, the delicate candles in the chandelier, and feel the warmth of the gaslamps against my hand.

I reached out, as though in a trance, and grazed the canvas with the backs of my fingers.

The door creaked open.

I bolted for the corner nearest it and doused my lantern.

Another pair of feet crept inside. I pressed myself against the wall, keeping a close eye on them as they picked up the drape with a sigh.

My breath stuck fast in my throat as they set about sorting paint boxes. One soft, careful step at a time, I disappeared through the door and scurried back to my room. But not to sleep.

I set my lantern on the nightstand and fetched my violin case instead, pondering the quickest route to Box Five.


	10. Chapter 9 I Advise You To Comply

**Violet the BroadwayxDisneyfan:** I'd just like to say a big thank you for all your reviews! I'm so glad you're enjoying the phic so far! I love to see what you think each week; hopefully this chapter won't disappoint!

 ** _"I advise you to comply:_**  
 ** _My instructions should be clear._**  
 ** _Remember, there are worse things_**  
 ** _Than a shattered chandelier..."_**

 **~ The Phantom.**

 **Andrew Lloyd Webber, The Phantom of the Opera.**

* * *

Jeremy pushed his crêpe around his plate absently. I watched him over the rim of my cup of tea, sipping it occasionally.

His emerald eyes were glazed over as we sat by the window, staring at his breakfast without really noticing it, and his fork clinked against the plate once or twice. I'd already cleared my throat a few times, trying to subtly get his attention; only once had he glanced up at me, before returning to his mind when I smiled.

"Ahem. Jeremy?"

Something in his eyes flickered, as though a bell had rung in his head like a master calling his servant. I smiled again and, finally, he put his fork down.

"Are you alright?"

"Fine."

I took another sip. "Are you sure?"

He looked back at the crêpe, pushing it about again. I set my cup down and caught his hand, squeezing gently. "Jeremy."

He froze at the contact, breath caught in his throat, and stared at my hand resting on his. _Clink_ went the fork, and he shovelled some of the crêpe into his mouth.

"Please, tell me the truth. Why so silent?"

I felt his hand leave mine and reach for the napkin. He wiped his mouth and fingers, daring to meet my eyes through my new mask, a pretty gold one this morning to compliment my tsunami of hair.

"Scared, Nikki," he said at last, his voice barely just a whisper. "Frightened."

"Why?" I asked, crossing my cutlery on my plate neatly. "If you don't mind me asking, that is."

Jeremy blushed. Had he been in uniform, he'd certainly have pulled his cap down. But he wasn't. He'd dressed up a bit for our breakfast in _Le Café de l'Opéra,_ choosing a clean, white shirt, dark trousers and a brown waistcoat. His tailcoat hung over the back of the chair. I wasn't sure how he'd manage to change in time for the morning routine checks at eleven, just three hours away, but I tried to have faith in him.

"It's the Opera Ghost," he said quietly. I glanced at a mark on the table, already knowing where this was headed. "Nikki, I... the truth is... well I'm not sure how to-"

"You were onstage at midnight, painting," I said slowly, staring at the remainder of my tea. Jeremy looked up at me with a frown.

"Yes," he said, leaning back in his seat and eying me warily. "But how do you know that?"

 _Now you've done it_.

Oh, shut up, brain, what would you know?

"Because I was the one playing the violin in Box Five."

 _You are a terrible person, Nikki._

Jeremy stared across the table like a goldfish, all eyes and mouth. I quirked the sides of my mouth up sheepishly and fiddled with the handle of my teacup, waiting for him to say something, anything.

But Jeremy simply closed his mouth, a firm line setting into his brow, and took five francs from his pocket. Without a word, he left it on the table and walked towards the exit. I bit my lip as the bell chimed and the door closed softly.

* * *

I didn't see Jeremy for the best part of the day after that. I caught sight of Guillaume trying to woo a visibly uncomfortable ballerina, but as far as Jeremy went, that was about it.

 _Never_ _mind,_ I thought, walking the death road to the tiny equipment storeroom and sneaking past Joseph Buquet as he spooked a few chorus girls with tales of sightings of the O.G. Jeremy didn't have Erik's level of expertise; he couldn't hide forever.

I spent the day polishing the statues that lined the corridors until they gleamed, musing over various problems I'd come across in the Opera House, ones I intended to fix once I had the manager's office to myself. Matushka had always reminded me to aim high, even if that meant starting at the bottom like she had, and look how well she'd done for herself.

I remembered my mother with a mix of emotions: a stern, critical woman with an eye for imperfections, she was strict on me as I grew, but also somewhat admirable. She was living proof that a woman with poor beginnings could achieve at least some social status, if she made wise choices and married the best available suitor. Perhaps that was why Erik sometimes compared me to her, and never with fondness.

Erik. I shook my head with a sigh and continued to polish the feet of a shining, golden goddess in the grand foyer. Sometimes I wished he could understand just how much I did for him. It would make my plan to rise through the social ranks much, much easier if he just worked with me to achieve it.

Something scuffed the floor behind me. I turned, cloth still in hand. The mask blocked some of my view, but it was enough to let me see a tense Jeremy Desrosiers as he scurried behind me, his legs working hard to charge past as subtly as he could.

"Jeremy!" I called with a grin, leaving my polishing cloth on the base of the statue and hurrying over. He froze, head ducking into tight shoulders, splaying his fingers. With stiff, slow movements, he glanced over his shoulder at me, completely red and tense, biting his lip. I lay a hand on one of those stiff shoulders and turned him around to face me.

His neat, formal waistcoat had been replaced with a tatty, work one, with more horse hair threaded through it than actual cotton.

"Are you turning into Nevel?" I joked, pulling some hair from his clothes and letting it float into my dust bucket. He didn't laugh. He didn't even smile. He just frowned and looked away, removing his cap to sweep down his dark curls. The grin on my lips faded. "Jeremy? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he muttered, turning away and trying to resume his walk down the hall towards the avant foyer. I caught him by the shoulder again and dragged him back to face me.

"Is this because I played the violin?"

He sucked in a sharp breath. "No, I..."

"If you tell me now," I whispered, "I won't tell anyone you use the stage after hours."

It was quite the mean bargain to make, but it worked. He seemed to deflate and the delicate emeralds carved in his eyes swept over the hallway.

"I just..." He sighed, plucking up his courage once more. I leaned forwards in anticipation. "I overheard Christine talking about her father sending her an Angel of Music-"

"Oh, for pities' sakes," I groaned, rolling my eyes.

"I just wished my father could do something like that!" he continued quickly, clutching my arm and looking me right in the eyes. "It was something I made up when I was grieving the most! To have an angel play for me as one sang to Christine! But only Guillaume ever played, until last night."

I wanted to sigh and tell him to grow up, but how could I when he was regarding me with such innocence and vulnerability? Something about that look stabbed a dagger into my heart. He'd thought an angel had heard his prayers, and I'd ruined his dreams instead. I was getting to be quite good at that.

"An angel..." I repeated slowly, looking at my feet. "Jeremy, what happened to your father?"

Silence. He looked away, letting his grip on my arm go, and turned to the nearest window, looking out into the street below.

"He was killed," he whispered at last, and I felt a chill rush down my spine, knowing what was coming next. "By the Phantom of the Opera."

He caught my gaze in the reflection, with all the sadness of a child. Something in my chest shattered into a million pieces and I had to avert my gaze. Why did I feel so dirty and evil? I wasn't responsible for Erik's actions, least of all while I was out of the country. But I'd grown up with the boy and treated him like my own little brother. Surely that held me somewhat accountable?

"I'm sorry," I muttered, blessing myself against the whirlwind of thought. Jeremy scoffed and pushed away from the window.

"Save your breath, my friend," he replied, making to stride out of the hallway through an arch that connected it to the next corridor. "I don't want your pity."

 _Pity._ The word alone was another dagger in me, and I understood his hate for it.

"That's not what I meant," I called after him. He stopped on the threshold of the archway, leaning one hand against the wall. "I'm sorry for _tricking_ you."

Something shifted in his persona. For a moment, I imagined him turning, running back to me and sweeping me into a tight hug, however improper that might be. But Jeremy sighed, raised his head and headed out of view altogether without another word, leaving me completely alone in the shining, golden hallway.

* * *

"What's going on up here?" I hissed, tiptoeing up the corridor to the managers' office. A particularly large group was bundled just outside, pressed against the wall and window to hear the conversation inside. I spied one familiar face and instantly regretted everything.

"Skulking are we, Mademoiselle?" Guillaume smirked. I scowled at him and pushed my way to the front, resting my ear against the door. "Will you be playing us a pretty little ditty tonight, if you catch my drift?"

"Shut it."

A few hours had passed since I'd seen Jeremy and I'd just finished cleaning as many statues as I could find. The day was beginning to stretch for three o'clock in the afternoon now, but that was quite long enough for me.

Murmurs vibrated through the wood, too soft to distinguish. The managers' and a woman's voice. That was as much as I could make out.

The doorknob turned. I jumped back, the crowd parting behind me as the Red Sea did for Moses. Christine Daae stood on the threshold, blinking at the gathered group, her hair a mess of unbrushed coils. She caught my stare and went a pasty shade of white, then ducked her head and scurried away down the path created for her.

Murmurs arose from the gathered crowd, the beginnings of inevitable rumours and lies. Amid the chaos, I slipped after Christine, hurrying after her as she walked back to her shared dressing room at an even quicker pace.

"Christine," I whispered, loud enough that she alone heard me. By now the halls had nearly cleared of people and she stopped with one hand on the door handle to her room. _"Christine."_

That made her freeze entirely.

"What was that all about?" I said quietly, coming up behind her and leaning against the wall. She sucked in a breath. Why was I having that effect on people today? Was it something in my attitude? The new mask?

"They want me to play Siébel, in Faust," she whispered, a single, diamond tear rolling down her perfectly smooth, porcelain cheek, lit only by the nearby candlelight.

"And why is this so terrible?" I knew I would regret asking that, but I said it all the same.

"Because Erik wants me to play Marguerite," she said, resting her head against the door and letting more tears roll down her cheeks. " _Marguerite_ _,_ Nikki! He sent Messieurs Firmin and André a note detailing that wish, but they refused!"

Everything within me sunk to new lows. What had started as a relatively good morning, if a little awkward once breakfast rolled around, was getting longer and more tiresome as it went on. I thought longingly of my bed Down Below, wanting nothing more than to just sink into the creaky mattress and sleep everything away.

"What happens now?" I murmured. Christine blew out a long breath, closing her eyes and shaking her head. She sniffed and stood upright, brushing her cheeks down fiercely.

"I'll talk to him," she said, her voice firm and set. I worked my jaw back and forth, thinking that through for a second before she spoke again. "He threatened tragedy if I didn't lead the production. But he'll listen to me, I know he will."

"He loves you," I muttered again, trying to remind her - and myself - of the man who'd thrown himself at her feet and begged for love. "You know that, don't you?"

The Christine I'd seen on stage, the Christine in the rumours and the Christine I'd met on the rooftop all seemed to disappear before my eyes as she opened the door and stepped inside, turning back to me as she closed it.

"He would commit murder for me," she whispered, shutting the door and locking the dark world of the Opera House out.


	11. Chapter 10 Part 1 Nothing More Dead

**_"He (Raoul) stared dully at the desolate, cold road and the pale, dead night. Nothing was colder or more dead than his heart. He had loved an angel and now he despised a woman."_**

 **~ Gaston Leroux, The Phantom of the Opera.**

 **(You would not believe how difficult it is to find accurate info, or any info at all, about the acts and scenes in which Gounod wrote a ballet part in _Faust_. Therefore, if I'm wrong about the Danse de Phyrne, I am more than open to hearing someone who can tell me when exactly it takes place in the opera)**

* * *

I didn't sleep a wink that night; instead, I spent six hours tossing and turning in my bed Up Top, staring at cracks in the walls and counting hundreds of thousands of sheep.

The entire day replayed through my mind. How was Erik? I'd left him sleeping at the organ at two in the morning with the _Don_ _Juan_ score open before him, a couple of hours ago now. And what about Jeremy? I'd never seen him so upset!

He'd be back.

Wouldn't he?

I frowned and tossed again, facing the Angel of Music in the corner. He looked up to Heaven with a pious innocence in his eyes, hands clasped in eternal prayer. Was this Erik's idea of a joke? Not everyone could be as pure as gold.

As the clock in the square chimed six in the morning, I swung my legs out of bed and gathered my work clothes and bonnet. Hoping that this morning would be a better success than yesterday's, I fetched the ten francs I'd borrowed from the safe in the House and headed out to the foyer.

Jeremy was not there.

 _Never mind,_ I thought, pushing the doors open and walking out into the square. Perhaps he was already in the café. But as I walked past the window and glanced in at our usual seat, only my reflection stared back at me.

The cups and cutlery remained neatly set on the table, with the newest copy of _L'Époque_ folded beside it, just like yesterday's breakfast. The only difference was the lack of a Jeremy. Something very small and very deep down within me sunk.

What had I done?

* * *

There were voices from behind the door to Box Five again that night. I gritted my teeth; not this time. I'd been shocked the other night, but no longer! I rapped thrice on the dark panels and walked in before they had a chance to complain.

"Good evening, gentlemen."

A slight pause. Then:

"Aren't you the demoiselle from before?" Monsieur le Comte said, standing from his - _my_ \- seat and straightening his jacket. I stood straighter in my dress, raising my chin at him. From Erik's seat, Raoul peered apologetically over his shoulder at me.

"The Opera Ghost has very clearly instructed that this is my seat for the performance," I replied, fixing my gloves nonchalantly. "Understand Monsieur, he's demanded this and threatened murder in the same letter. Ah, Monsieur le Comte, I simply fear for your-"

A hand caught my arm and gripped. I squealed and went to hit my captor on the nose, but my other hand was caught in another grip of iron. A guard stared back down at me and then up at the Comte.

Philippe de Chagny nodded and waved a finger towards the door.

"Wait—!" I cried, kicking against the guard as he picked me up by the arm and carried me out of the box. "Monsieur—!"

"Sorry, Mademoiselle," the guard said, putting me back on my feet at the door to the auditorium. "But we both know better than to disobey a patron's orders."

He tipped his helmet with two fingers and turned on his heel, marching back to his post.

" _I'm_ a bloody patron," I muttered once he was out of earshot, fixing my dress indignantly. Was it so much to ask to sit in my own box? Were the managers that stubborn?

Fine. If the de Chagny brothers ended up strangled to death in their - _my_ , again - seats because I wasn't there to protect them, it would be because of Philippe's own stupidity.

* * *

"Enjoy the performance?" Guillaume smirked as I descended the stairs to the scene shifting department. The performance in question hadn't even begun and I glared at him for being so trying, however hidden the expression was behind the mask.

"Is Jeremy here? I need to... ah..."

 _To make amends?_

Will you just—

I shook off the thoughts and scanned the cold, dusty department once more, checking each man as he hurried about between horses and ropes. None looked familiar and I sighed quietly.

Guillaume shook his head. "It's his day off. Usually watches the performance upstairs. Why? Going to watch the steamy opera and sneak a few—"

But I was already gone, not hearing the rest of his boyish insults or the laughter of the other men that followed.

"Jeremy!" I called, raking my gaze over the crowds in the audience as I hurried through the wings. The orchestra began to tune up, cutting my stride in half before I could run out onto the stage. And still no sign of him.

"Mademoiselle?" I turned to see the little Meg Giry, her forehead creased into knots, her hand hovering over my shoulder. She stood like a dainty china doll, her raven hair curling over her shoulders and the top of her townsperson costume. And her face. Perfect in every way. Unblemished, big eyes and lashes, an elegantly curved Cupid mouth. I smiled at her, secretly envying her fortune. "Monsieur Desrosiers is in the audience. I saw him when he was buying his ticket."

"That's alright," I said, glancing back at the drawn curtain that blocked my view of the audience. "It isn't urgent."

 _Isn't it? Seemed urgent when you were running about in panic trying to find him._

I will get a head check tomorrow and then we'll see who runs about in panic.

"Mademoiselle—"

"Nikki," I insisted, flashing her another smile as a number of actors assembled on stage. From her spot in the opposite wings, in the shadow of Carlotta's mighty Marguerite, Christine caught my eye, as if begging for reassurance, and I nodded at her smally. Her costume actually suited her, if a woman could wear trousers and a waistcoat. _Erik's_ waistcoat. I'd dug it out from the depths of his wardrobe two days ago and hid it amongst the others in Costume, pretending he wouldn't notice its absence. A girl can dream.

Meg followed my gaze. "Christine Daae? Hasn't she caused quite a stir recently? I heard the Phantom wanted her to be Marguerite."

"Are you friends?" I asked. It wasn't that I didn't trust the Little Giry. Word spread like wildfire, especially here, and the fewer people that knew Christine meant fewer people could find out about Erik, which made my life so much easier. Besides, I'd never pictured Christine and the Little Giry together, sharing chocolate at midnight or whispering dirty secrets of girlish amour, the usual rituals I imagined came with having a female friend. But Meg shook her head.

"I've never spoken to her before. Mama likes to make sure I concentrate on my dancing; she wants me to become the lead ballerina someday."

"Marguerite Giry!" a sharp voice hissed, as if on cue. Madame Giry tapped her cane against the floorboards, catching the attention of everyone within a ten-meter radius. Meg went a deep shade of red. "You are a ballerina, are you not? Join the _corps_ immediately!"

Meg shot one last look at me, but whispered a goodbye and scurried off to take her place with her peers, ready to bounce onstage at the perfect moment. I looked back to the stage, avoiding the accusing glances her mother threw me. Christine lifted the corner of her mouth slightly, but it fell within seconds and she returned to scanning the catwalks above.

Come to think of it, I hadn't seen Erik all day. Was that a good or a bad thing? One could never tell.

* * *

Ballets could be beautiful when people knew what they were doing. They could be moving, inspiring and leave you in tears. They could make your heart race or slow it right down. Some even gave you little shocks. The Danse de Phyrne in Act Five of Faust gave all that and more. I just wasn't expecting so much of it to be true.

Who knew the perfect time to hang a man was in the middle of a lovely dance?

I twiddled with my fingernails as the managers bustled everyone into place in their haste. Standing back here in the wings wouldn't last the whole Opera, but it gave me ample opportunity to spot anything suspicious, should a certain Ghost try to fulfil his threats. Christine, however, looked about as comfortable as Erik would have if he paraded through _L'Arc_ _de_ _Triomphe_ naked.

Someone bustled past me, a little too forceful for my liking.

"Watch it!" I snapped, managing to keep my balance before I could tumble onstage. A grunt. Joseph Buquet looked me up and down. I glowered. "Didn't your mother ever teach you not to push women?"

"Who are you going to cry to?" he said, raising a hairy eyebrow. "The Opera Ghost?"

"You tell me," I retorted. "I've heard you've met him."

A sickly, yellow smile. "I can tell you all about him tonight, if you wish, Mademoiselle."

I slapped his advancing hand away. "Scenes need putting in their places, I'm sure. Go on, have it!"

He grinned. "If you say so."

I didn't give him the satisfaction of watching him leave. Across the stage, Christine pretended to gag.

As the opera began and one scene faded into another, I rehearsed my apology to Jeremy over and over again. Voices blended together, from solos to chorus to solos again, until Carlotta's voice rang clear and shrill throughout the auditorium.

"No, sir! I am neither a lady,

Nor beautiful, not a lady-"

And then something I'd never expected in my whole life: she set to croaking like a frog, a toad. My jaw hung open. I could only stare at the Prima Donna, unable to take in what I'd just heard. Christine looked about in confusion, sending a frown over her shoulder at me. I had no answer for her.

A series of gasps arose from the auditorium. A stunned silence swept over the audience like a wave, which broke after a moment to the thundering of surprised laughter.

Carlotta cleared her throat and lifted her magnificent head high, and, with a deep breath, began her verse again.

"No, sir! I am neither-"

Another croak. Her hand flew to her mouth as one laugh rose above all and froze the company in their places onstage.

A hand grabbed my shoulder. My breath caught and, for a split second, I saw Jeremy standing behind me.

"What's going on?" Madame Giry snapped, panic rising in her copper eyes as they darted between Carlotta and I. Another loud, low laugh filled the auditorium, raising a second or third round of gasps. Her other hand found my spare shoulder and she shook me back and forth quite violently. "For God's sakes, Nikki, you told me he wouldn't cause trouble!"

"Keep your voice down, woman, you'll get me arrested again!" I hissed back, fighting my way from her grip in a hazy, spinning world. Yes, she'd caught me at lunch and made me promise that Erik would stay out of trouble during the performance, but he hadn't been in the House when I'd gone down, so it wasn't _really_ my fault. "Antoinette, _please!"_

"The performance will resume presently," Firmin was announcing, his voice everywhere in the auditorium, "with Miss Daae in the role of Marguerite!"

Madame Giry's head snapped to the stage in unison with mine, watching as Christine was shoved back behind the drawn curtain and stumbled over to us.

One voice in the auditorium rose above the others. "An excellent choice."

"Madame-!" she started, cut off as Madame Giry caught her hand and dragged her to the dressing rooms a few corridors away. The wings flooded with panicking stagehands and ballerinas as Monsieur André announced the Danse de Phyrne as a replacement.

"You, the girl in the mask!" someone snapped, throwing me a length of rope. "Help me lift the props!"

I rushed forwards as the curtain went up, nearly crashing into Meg Giry as she led part of the _corps_ onto the stage. The stagehand grabbed one end of the rope, throwing it around one of the biggest props of the scene. I knotted it as well as I could and stood back to let the men above lift it out of the way.

"Merci, Mademoiselle," the stagehand said, grabbing my hand and tugging me back to the wings. I glared at the Erikless auditorium as we scurried out of sight.

I nodded back, but he was already gone, rushing up the workmen's stairs to help the others with more errands. A swish of shadow caught my eye from above. I whipped my head up, though I saw absolutely nothing but tangles of catwalks and ropes.

I'd need that doctor's appointment sooner rather than—

Have you ever heard three or four hundred people scream at once? It's quite a sound and it feels as if your eardrums are about to explode there and then. I spun to catch a glimpse of the shape of a man, suspended — no, _dangling —_ mid-air over centre-stage.

My heart stopped. I stared. Everyone around me screamed, yet I couldn't seem to make a sound. I simply stood there, with their screams a muffled, jumbled noise in my mind. I took a step back as the body plummeted to the stage, then another as the people around me rushed forwards to inspect it, inspect the lasso around its neck.

The 'It' in question was, unmistakably, Joseph Buquet.

 **To be continued...**


	12. Chapter 10 Part 2

_"If you can think me capable of ever feeling, surely you may suppose that I have suffered now."_

 **~ Elinor to Marianne.**

 **Jane Austen,** _ **Sense and Sensibility**_

 **I'm so sorry for the delay in updates; the site didn't work for me yesterday, but here we are**! **This chapter is a bit longer than the others, but I think the rooftop scene always needs its own spotlight. Also, as exams are coming up this week, I haven't been able to edit this as much as I'd have liked, so please bear with me this week! I've bettered a few things, but not** _ **everything.**_

* * *

I stepped away from the commotion, slipping back into the shadows and finding my way out of the wings into the corridors. Taking a long breath, I leaned against a wall, closing my eyes.

I'd heard the rumours floating about. I'd read Erik's threats. I knew about the Rosy Hours. But I just couldn't link those things to Erik. Why, though? Why couldn't I see the thin hands, that danced over the shining, ivory organ keys, killing a man? Was this my fault? I'd asked him to sort Buquet out; I'd never meant for Erik to actually _kill_ him.

 _People shook Buquet by the shoulders, trying to awaken him. I stared up into the catwalks._

 _"Pull your stockings up, it was only a corpse!" Firmin was yelling at some ballet rats, who were on the verge of fainting in their tight dresses. Meg clung to her mother's arm and Madame Giry caught my eye as I glanced over._

 _'Go,' she seemed to say. 'He won't listen to me.'_

I took another deep breath and stood up properly. My racing heart drowned out every other noise around me: the screams of ballerinas, the footsteps of fleeing audience members and those of doctors as they hurried to the crime scene.

I didn't hear the other set of footsteps until it was too late.

A hand snaked around my wrist, catching me and pulling me back into someone's chest. I gasped involuntarily. One hand flew to my dagger as I kicked my captor's shin, the other to his face for the mask. He, as I knew by his body type, pushed his hand over my mouth.

I bit down. The man yelped and drew his hand away, shaking it out and hissing in pain.

"Erik, you're a dead man!" I snapped.

" _Shh,_ Nikki! Are you alright?"

I let out the sharp breath I'd been holding in one long puff and turned to face him. "Jeremy, I—"

"Are you alright?" His words ran into one another as he caught my wrists and checked my arms over. He fixed my cotton shawl and went to pull a glove from my hand. I drew a sharp breath and yanked them away before he could, burying them in the folds of my dark gown.

"Fine," I replied, not realising how sharp I was being until I'd said it. "I'm fine. Thank you."

His eyes softened and he stepped forward to wrap his arms around me in an offered hug. "I was so scared when he... And then I thought that you..." he muttered, his voice cracking.

I bit my lip at his advancements and stepped back, smiling gently when he glanced up in fear. His eyes shone in the candlelight beneath long, dark eyelashes, emeralds in a cave lit by a miner's torch. He nodded and stepped back slightly.

"I have to find someone," I whispered, turning away to hurry up the corridor.

"Erik?"

I stopped dead in my tracks. "How do you know about Erik?" I hissed, glaring at him.

Jeremy stumbled over his words for a moment. "You called me Erik," he said, coiling back just in the slightest. "Is there anything you need to tell me before I let you go charging into the opera house, following a murder?"

I thought fast, searching for the right story, one of many.

"Erik is a friend of mine," I said. Jeremy's eyes wandered to his feet. "He was in the audience tonight; I _must_ find him! He'll panic and either hurt himself or someone else."

"It isn't wise to snoop—"

I caught his hand and squeezed it, searching his eyes from behind my mask. "I have to _look,_ at very least! He's an old friend!"

 _He's an old friend that I will probably murder with a shoe and whatever disease that blasted monkey he_ _owns has._

A small sigh. "Go then. But be safe! Keep your hands at the level of your eyes and, whatever you do, don't go Down Below."

Relief flooded through my veins, setting my heart hammering once more. A different kind of hammering; no longer shocked or frightened, something quite different altogether. I nodded at him and turned once more, sprinting down the rest of the corridor. Fighting against the tightness of my corset, I carried on into the twisting passages, looking left and right, up and down for any sign of ghoulish trouble.

A swish of shadow caught my eye first as I sprinted down the dark halls, and a flash of white ducked beneath a timber beam. Soft, barely audible footsteps hurried away overhead. Without a second thought, I chased after them, grabbing the bannister of a nearby flight of stairs and swinging myself up to take them at top speed.

The darkness fled from the top stair when it saw my mask racing up two at a time.

"Erik Destler!" I screamed, launching myself up onto the landing. He tried to hide in the shadows, his mask only just covered by shadow, the darkness not thick enough to completely camouflage it. I charged, screeching like a banshee, and smacked into him, slapping for all I was worth, though I only amounted to his chest height. "You'll be the next to die tonight!"

"Kitty!" he cried, trying to prise me away. "Kitty, stop! What's brought this on?"

I paused at his insolence, glaring at him darkly. "One word: Buquet hung by a Punjab lasso!"

He frowned, gripping my wrists harder. "That isn't-"

" _I don't bloody care!_ " I screamed again, using my legs this time to teach him a lesson. "Erik, I'll kill you myself for this!"

"Christine! Christine, why have you brought me here?" someone called from nearby. Erik grabbed me by the waist, tugging me into the shadows and slamming a hand down over my mouth.

"We can't go back there, Raoul!" Very well; t _wo_ voices. Erik stiffened at Christine's words, his grip on my waist tightening. Two pairs of feet slammed against the wood of the stairs I had just chased Erik up, coming straight towards us.

"We must return!"

"Oh, wonderful!" I hissed, glaring up at Erik's face - which was as pasty white as his mask - "now look! Monsieur le Vicomte de Fopland and your protégée, no doubt! Good luck explaining what you're doing with me like this, you insolent, backstabbing, singing skeleton!" With a growl, Erik narrowed his eyes and pulled his cloak up, hiding us away and blending our bodies into the shadows. Moments later, the hysterical Christine Daae dashed past, Raoul hot on her heels.

"No! He'll kill you!" Despite my anger, despite _myself,_ I shrank back into Erik's waistcoat, hiding as best I could beneath his cloak. "His eyes, those terrible eyes, will watch every move we make! Hurry Raoul! Hurry up!"

"Christine—"

"If he has to kill a thousand men to get to me," Christine shrieked, dashing for another set of wooden stairs. Raoul called desperate comforts that fell on her deaf ears, blind to the very person he was running from hiding in the shadows. " _He_ will do so!"

Their feet pounded up the stairs above our heads and Erik ducked further into the darkness, dragging me with him. Seconds later, Raoul's voice blended with Christine's from far above our heads, an incoherent jumble of voice. Erik's hand stayed firmly pressed over my mouth, his forehead bowed to rest on my shoulder. For a brief moment, only a moment, I felt my heart miss a beat and a chill rush down my spine.

I sprang forwards, out of Erik's grip and into the light of the torches on the walls. He held my scowl with an indifferent gaze as I adjusted my mask with violent tugs.

"How do you feel about hanging from a rope like Buquet right about now?" I snapped, my hands balling into fists. His indifference was chilling but it did nothing to quench my fiery outburst. "What about falling from the roof of the Opera house? Though I've heard drowning is the most fashionable way to go recently."

"You wouldn't try to kill me, Kitty," he sighed, rolling his eyes and folding his arms.

I scowled even further, taking subtle delight when those sly, amber eyes of his widened and he swallowed. "Just you _try_ me!"

His hand flew to his neck. He inched away, taking longer steps as I moved towards him. He took one glance over his shoulder at the corridor and took off like a bullet towards a nearby flight of wooden stairs. My heart seemed to pump venom through my veins, venom that shocked my feet into giving chase. I rushed up the stairs after him and looked around, searching the baskets and props on this floor for any sign of-

There!

He and his mask vanished through a secret door, leaving it swinging. I went after him, making sure to let it bang behind me as I went.

"Erik, you'll pay for this!" I shouted, pushing myself into an even faster sprint. My legs started to burn almost immediately, my heart working overtime. Corsets are _not_ designed to be used for running.

"Leave me alone!"he shouted back, swerving left and heading for more steps. His cloak flew out to the side, almost tripping me over as I burst forwards into a sprint, nearly catching him.

"How could you do this to someone?" I called again, dodging a crate of table props he knocked to the floor.

"Raoul, he stole her!"

"But you can't just hang someone! Erik, secrets don't ever last!"

"Just," he snarled over his shoulder, still sprinting up flights of endless stairs and dashing along short hallways and landings. "Leave. Me. Alone!"

He upturned another crate, sending it clattering to the ground before me in a mess of splinters and nails. I raced after him, dodging the fake fruit to the best of my abilities. The wooden panels had begun to creak beneath his feet as he hit them harder and louder with every stride.

"Don't make me fetch Nadir!" I threw an apple I had acquired from the floor at him, but missed. "You won't like the consequences!"

Erik snarled at Nadir's name and burst through a door, trying to slam it in my face before I could catch it with my foot. I sprinted after him into the freezing night air, my arms chilling from the sudden rush of cold.

"Erik, for God's sakes, stop trying to run away from all your problems!"

He scoffed, bounding across the roof and taking refuge behind a statue. "Of course, because _you're_ the _perfect_ person to give that sort of advice!"

I flushed and bundled my hands into fists. "Take that back!"

"Or what? You'll fetch Daroga? You abandoned him too, you know you did!"

The door on the far side of the roof opened. Erik's glare vanished and he scurried up the roof to hide amongst the robes of Apollo quicker than a flash of lightning. I dove behind the nearest statue I could find, one that wouldn't mean hauling myself up to Apollo's Lyre.

Raoul hurried out first with a frightened Christine following. Erik caught my eyes and put his finger to his lips, his own amber ones wide with shock and the strain of being silent. I glared up at him, sticking out my tongue.

I blamed Buquet for this. If he hadn't been so nosy, I wouldn't be pressed up against the freezing cold podium of a statue in the darkest part of the roof possible. That door was on the furthest, and I mean the furthest, corner of the roof, totally diagonal to me, yet I felt Christine's presence as if she were right beside me. Erik was perfectly safe and hidden in Apollo's robes, but I was the one cornered. If Raoul kept walking and took a sudden left turn, he would be heading right towards me. That would mean either escape via good hiding or escape via a series of elaborate yet convincing lies. I was better at one than the other.

Luckily, both lovebirds seemed too focused on debating Erik's existence to see if anyone else was around.

"There is no such thing as the Phantom of the Opera!" Raoul cried, raking his hands through his hair as he stumbled out into the night. "You heard Monsieur Firmin! Don't be fooled by the insolence of a rogue employee, Christine!"

"He _is_ real!" she argued back, clutching his sleeves in desperation. "I've _seen_ him, Raoul! Heard him, felt him!"

He pulled away at that, disgust shaping his normally handsome mouth into an ugly grimace.

"Oh, the first time I saw him!" Christine cried, abandoning Raoul to slump against the podium where Apollo stood. She gazed out at the skyline miserably, brushing her eyes occasionally and quite fiercely. "I thought I was going to die!"

"Why?"

"Because _I had seen him!"_ she stressed, as if it were not completely obvious. She proceeded to tell Raoul the story she'd told me, twisting it here and there to suit our different understandings. Occasionally I would glance at Erik, but he was crouched amongst the statue like he himself were made of stone, transfixed by Christine.

"When I opened my eyes, we were still surrounded by darkness," Christine went on. _Darkness?_ I frowned at her. The House was covered with candles. Full of them. There were candles all around and, what's more, they were expensive. Darkness my foot. I rolled my eyes, putting her tumble of words down to a panicking mind.

Raoul breathed a long sigh through his nose and went to wrap his arms around her waist from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. He rocked their bodies back and forth, letting the wind catch their hair and Christine's dress. Their voices faded into murmurs, leaving me to my thoughts for just minute or two.

Erik's eyes glinted amongst the stars. He remained as still as Apollo, eyes trained on the pair beneath him. I stifled a sigh. It was a lonely life, living in the cellars. Magical and never boring, but lonely. I glanced again at Christine, at the way she loved Raoul's arms around her. I'd pushed my chance at that same happiness away just seven or eight minutes ago.

"No more talk of Erik," Raoul said, leaving his place behind her and taking her hand instead. "Christine, I must ask: do you love me?"

She blushed and ducked her head. "You know I do."

"Then what do you feel for Erik?" When she didn't reply but bit her lip and looked away, he scoffed.

"You love him, don't you? Your fear, your terror, all of that is just love and love of the most exquisite kind, the kind which people do not admit even to themselves," said Raoul bitterly. "The kind that gives you a thrill, when you think of it... Picture it: a man who lives in a palace underground!"

"He fills me with horror!" she cried, catching all three of us off guard. Raoul stepped back by a step. "I've seen his face, Raoul! It's... it's _horrible!_ It's worse than anything you can imagine! Mangled, torn, scarred all over! No rumour has, or ever will, truly capture his nightmare of a face!"

Raoul stared at her for a long moment, swallowing down a mouthful of nerve. Trembling, he sunk to the ground, drawing something from his pocket. Erik whimpered and I squinted at the Vicomte.

"He truly haunts you, doesn't he?" he said, opening the box. Christine drew a sharp breath and stared down at it. In his hands, I saw the faint shimmering of a diamond.

Erik's voice met my ears, soft and strained. _"Christine..."_

"Marry me, Christine," Raoul began, clearing his throat. "Marry me before the year ends. I'll fetch my best horses and take you far, far away, back to Sweden if I must. Let me save you from this mess! Let me save you from Erik, and whoever may be involved with him! Let the nightmare end."

I clutched the cold stone as tears streamed down Christine's cheeks. She nodded, offering her hand, and Raoul slipped the ring onto her finger with a smile. He stood and bent to kiss her. Erik stared down at them from the Lyre.

Oh, poor, unhappy Erik! He had a heart that could hold the entire kingdom of the world and I knew only too well it was being crushed with every second of this.

 _Why, Christine? Why?_

Raoul stepped out of the embrace and took Christine's hand, kissing it softly. "Come," he said, tugging her towards the door. "They'll wonder where you are, Mademoiselle Marguerite."

Christine smiled and fell into step with him. But I still noticed the glance she spared over her shoulder as they headed through the door and into the warmth of the torchlight.

Erik stood and stared out across the cityscape. I echoed, groaning as my back and knees cracked.

"That was _too_ close," I called up to him, fixing my hair into its bun again and adjusting my mask. "Next time you plan on murdering someone, do it when it isn't so cold."

But Erik simply climbed down the statue back to the flatter roof and paced over to the edge, staring down at the street below. I frowned and let my hair go. "Erik?"

The wind caught his cloak, brushing it soundlessly against the stone. He stood so still, like one of the statues, just staring. He turned and walked along the edge, one slow, cautious foot in front of the other. Reaching the corner, he turned on his heel and walked back to his starting point, knocking tiny pieces of concrete down into the street far below. My mouth ran dry.

"Erik," I said, taking a few steps towards him. My hand raised towards his shoulder, though I wasn't near enough to touch him. He turned again and resumed his balancing act. "What are you doing?"

Not a word.

"Erik? Erik, come down! Come away from the edge!" I swallowed and crossed my arms, trying a nonchalant act. "Erik, this isn't funny."

"Christine..." he muttered. And he let his foot hang over the drop.

I screamed and jumped to grab his shoulder. Erik pushed me off, wobbling on one foot. I slapped a hand over my mouth, accidentally hitting my mask and digging it into my skin. "Erik, you idiot, come away from there!"

"Alright." He let his foot hang out a little further and leaned over the drop, ready to tip himself into the void. I cried out, shattering something in my throat, and caught his arm, gripping all the way around his skeletal structure.

"What will I tell Christine if you die?"

He glanced over his shoulder at my hand. "Nothing. You'll go down with me if you don't let go." His voice was heavy, deep in his throat where it never usually came from. He looked up and met my gaze. I fought back a flood of tears; the fire in his eyes had all but gone out.

I let him go and he returned his gaze to the street, bracing his knees ready to jump.

"What about _Don Juan Triumphant_?"

He froze, but shook my words off and gritted his teeth.

"You promised not to die until it was finished!" I whispered. "Erik, you _promised_ me! That time when you... when you..." I trailed off, unable to finish without thinking back to that dreadful day I'd found him in the torture chamber.

Erik untied his mask. It bared a strained, devilish face, but human enough to fight tears. He failed and they streamed down his face again. "Christine..."

In his moment of hesitation, I snatched his arm, yanking him away from the drop. He stumbled and sunk to his knees before me. His body racked with loud, shattered sobs. I lay a tentative hand on his shoulder and ducked down beside him, whispering useless comforts.

Somewhere nearby, an owl hooted.


	13. Chapter 11 Your Obedient Servant, OG

**_"IF YOU WISH TO LIVE IN PEACE, YOU MUST NOT BEGIN BY TAKING AWAY MY PRIVATE_ BOX.**

 ** _Believe me to be, dear Mr. Manager, without prejudice to these little observations,_**

 ** _Y_ _our Most Humble and Obedient Servant,_**

 ** _Opera Ghost."_**

 ** _~ Erik, regarding the selling of Box Five without his knowing consent in a letter to the managers._**

 **Gaston Leroux, The Phantom of the Opera.**

 **The beginning of this chapter is marked as a potential trigger warning. Self-harm is briefly referenced.**

* * *

I swung my legs over the side of the stage, staring into the rows of empty seats without actually taking anything in. My mind had become one messy blur, a jumble of wool that I couldn't find the ends to. It was gone four in the morning and I'd given up any hope of sleep for the night.

I gazed up at the shadow that was Box Five. It was locked and I'd left my key in my pinny pocket in my room. I could have simply gone and fetched it, but that required moving from my spot on the stage and moving was not something I particularly wanted to do for the time being.

The soft light of a candle eased its way across the floorboards, slipping over my hand. I watched it absently, playing with the little rays of light with my fingers and creating shadows on the floor.

"I thought I'd find you here," a man's voice said. I turned to him, hissing at the sudden glare of candlelight and turning away again. "Come now, Nikki, you aren't a cat," he said gently, setting the lamp on the floor.

Jeremy paced over to where I was sitting and offered me his hands. I glanced at his feet, noticing just how close to the edge of the stage they were, and swallowed.

I'd put Erik to bed - well, _coffin_ \- with a cup of tea and a soft melody on the pianoforte in his bedroom, but it hadn't been enough to soothe my own mind. No matter how hard I tried, I simply could not suppress the memories of him walking along the edge of the rooftop, or those of finding him in the torture chamber with a shard of bloody glass to hand some years ago.

I looked back up at Jeremy and he smiled, bending slightly at the waist. His hands remained open, offered, ready. I sighed. It was too early in the morning to argue with my pride.

He pulled me to my feet, steadying me when I nearly overbalanced and smiled again, warm and kind and comforting. My eyes trailed to his chest, to the scruffy dress shirt that probably served at night clothes, along with loose fitting trousers and a belt.

 _You're going soft._

"Does your offer of that hug still stand?" I said, trying to keep the wavers from my voice and hold my chin up a little more. The façade didn't work: he simply smiled that same smile, his eyes soft and gentle like a trusty workhorse, and held his arms open to me without one questioning word.

I relished in that silence and flopped into his arms. A few rebel tears slipped beneath my porcelain mask.

"Thank you, Jeremy."

"Anytime," he whispered back.

* * *

"You're early," Beatrice called as she headed into the corridor I was cleaning, carrying her own bucket and rags. I leaned against my mop and smiled, although the edge of the mask dug into my face. It now hid dark circles beneath my eyes as well as what it was supposed to cover, and the mirror's verdict this morning had been harsher than normal; I looked like a panda that had been involved in a knife attack, and had tied it a bit tighter.

"I couldn't sleep," I replied. Not a lie. "Bit shaken, that's all." Lie. "Did you hear what happened to Joseph Buquet?"

She nodded, a sombre look reshaping her smile. "I was at home, but you know how quickly rumours spread."

I nodded and dunked the mop in my bucket again, washing the floor in wide circles. Beatrice set her bucket down a few feet away and polished a marble statue gently.

We worked in silence for a little while, Beatrice humming to herself occasionally. That was until:

"Mademoiselle de La Chance?"

Christine stood at the end of the hall, her shawl pulled over her little shoulders. She stepped over to me, her ballerina grace not leaving her feet as she hurried along.

My skin went cold as she approached, and I tensed as she reached to take my arm. I glanced at her hand; no engagement ring? That was quick. Beatrice glanced over her shoulder, but raised her eyebrows and turned away to continue polishing various statues. Christine's voice came out as a whisper.

"If anyone asks, tell them I've gone with Raoul for a day out," she said, and I frowned.

"And where will you _really_ be?"

She went scarlet and bit her lip slightly, glancing up at Beatrice. "I shall be with him, certainly. It's the truth, but just..."

"Not the whole truth," I finished, nodding. She squeezed my arm and smiled.

Should I tell her I know she's engaged?

But when had I _not_ made full use of advantages?

"I promise."

She breathed a long sigh, most likely of relief, and wrapped her arms around my shoulders. When she pulled away, her own gloved hands found mine and squeezed them gently.

"Thank you, Nikki. It really is good to have a friend like you."

I smiled my best until she turned her back and hurried out of the hall.

 _Poor, unhappy Erik. She's going to crush him._

I picked up my mop and finished off the floors. Jeremy had promised to take me to lunch at two. I couldn't be late again.

* * *

I was late again. Sprinting in a corset through crowded corridors was difficult enough, but coupled with my bucket and mop, everything became much more difficult. A clock nearby chimed two o'clock, sending bolts of panic through me.

The managers' office door swung open as I rushed past. A hand shot out and I yelped, jumping away before it could touch me.

"Mademoiselle de La Chance?" a pale Monsieur André said, his soft voice shaking. I skidded to a halt and stared back at him. Behind him, Monsieur Firmin sat at the desk, his hands clasped before his mouth as he stared at a leather-bound book. "Might we talk to you?"

I narrowed my eyes, my gaze flitting between the two managers, but nodded and entered when he stepped back to let me in. I took a seat opposite Monsieur Firmin and glanced at the book he was studying. The childish scrawl of red ink marked each page here and there, swirling up and down in a cursive I recognised like my reflections.

André cleared his throat. Firmin glanced up, broken from his trance. He closed the book and set it aside, pushing his spectacles up his nose.

"Mademoiselle." His voice was raspy and hollow, as if all the strength had been sucked from his throat. "We apologise for interrupting you. It seems we must discuss matters of your employment."

I frowned at this sudden change in attitude. Firmin tapped the leather-bound book and pushed it across to me. "Do you recognise this?"

I opened it to the first few pages, scanning through a few paragraphs. Of course, I recognized Erik's writing, and I'd definitely seen this book about ten years ago, but the term 'Memorandum Book', which was scrawled over the cover, rung no bells whatsoever.

"No, Monsieur." I passed it back. "Is this to do with the Opera Ghost?"

He nodded, raking a hand through his thinning hair and taking his spectacles off to clean them on his tailcoat. He picked up a leaf of paper and passed that to me as well. "A new letter, just arrived this morning."

I bit my lip and picked it up.

 _Dear Mr Manager,_

 _How very unfortunate that Monsieur Joseph Buquet couldn't be here to warn you now._

 _I have been good to you thus far: I've given you time enough to pay my salary, which is still due -— please see Madame Giry within the week in regards to this matter — , I've sent you plenty of warnings over the month in which you have been in office and have treated you far better than any other managers in the past. Yet still you push me to the very edge of my patience, and I am a very patient ghost, Monsieur._

 _It has come to my attention that Mademoiselle de La Chance has not been reinstated as a box-attendant under your employment, against my wishes; please see Clause Eight in the Memorandum Book which MM Debienne and Poligny left with you, under the title EMPLOYMENT BY THE WISHES OF O.G. Neither has Christine Daae been given the recognition a woman of her talent deserves. Again, Monsieur, Clause Eight in the Memorandum Book._

 _Finally, the issue of Box Five. It seems I must ask again that you do not sell my box today nor on the days following, for I can not end this letter without telling you how disagreeably surprised I have been once or twice to hear, on arriving at the Opera, that my box had been sold at the box-office by your orders, most often to the Comte and Vicomte de Chagny._

 _I did not protest, first, because I dislike scandal, and second, because I thought that your predecessors, who were always charming to me, had neglected, before leaving, to mention my little peculiarities to you. I have now received a reply from them to my letter asking for an explanation, and this reply proves that you know all about my Memorandum Book and, consequently, that you are treating me with outrageous contempt._ If you wish to live in peace, you must not start by taking away my private box.

 _It is with trust and amiable wishes that I end this letter to you, in the hopes that our future correspondence will contain more understanding and cooperation on your part._

 _I am, as ever,_

 _Your most humble and obedient servant,_

 _O.G_

"Against my better judgement," Monsieur Firmin muttered as I set the letter down, rubbing his face and replacing his spectacles, "I find myself compelled to grant you the position of a box-attendant."

My heart soared. My lips burned with smiles, protesting when I forced myself to keep them down. I folded my hands tight to stop them from punching the air in triumph. One must retain dignity at all times, if nothing else, Matushka used to say.

"I agree," I said, mixing some level of worry into my voice and leaning forward to address the manager. "After poor Joseph... oh Monsieur, I get shivers even now thinking about it! I think it's wise of you to agree to the Opera Ghost's demands. I'd hate to see another of my colleagues killed for it!"

He glowered at me and set a pen to another scrap of paper, scribbling out a form. "You will find your uniform at Madame Giry's disposal on Tuesday next. Until then, you are to continue your work as a cleaner. Is this sufficient?"

I smiled my best, reaching across and shaking his offered hand. "Quite, Monsieur. Quite."

* * *

"I'm _so_ sorry!" I called, rushing down the Grand Escalier and pulling my old shawl around my shoulders. The clock in the office had been ticking towards ten past when I'd left. Jeremy looked up from fiddling with a card of sorts, his felt hat very nearly slipping from his curls. I reached the bottom and caught his arm, smiling fit to burst. "Monsieur Firmin gave me the box-attendant contract I wanted! Isn't this wonderful, Jeremy?"

I waved the contract in front of him and he frowned, leaning back slightly. I slipped my arm away from his and he took the contract from me as we walked out, eyes scanning over the words. A smile formed on his lips and he passed it back.

"That's wonderful, Nikki! You'll have to tell me all about it! But first, I must post something."

I eyed the letter in his hands. It was addressed to a Monsieur Jean Desrosiers, but Jeremy's thumb covered most of the rest of the address. "Your cousins?" I said.

Jeremy nodded, solemn all of a sudden. "I send them a letter every three months with my news. This one is early because of last night."

"Are you very close to them," I said, taking his arm again as we headed for a post box by the side of the street. He nodded again, not losing the air of sincerity; come to think of it, I'd never truly seen him like this. He was usually blushing, laughing or talking. Sincere was not a trait I'd ever pinned to him.

"Yes, of course. Ever since Papa and Julianna were killed..." He trailed off, dragging in a long breath. My breath hitched. Killed, he'd said. Not died. Killed.

"Was Julianna the ballerina you mentioned before?" I whispered. Jeremy clamped his mouth shut. He pushed the letter through the slit in the box.

"My fiancée," he muttered. "The Opera Ghost, he... only Papa's body came back to me. Julie is still down there somewhere..."

He drew himself back up to full height and shifted my arm in his with a confidence that could only come from the very bottom of one's heart. It was a confidence I found familiar. My heart ached for the poor man. Was this grief partly my responsibility?

"I'm sorry for your loss."His words from before rang through my mind and I feared that he might take offence again. But a smile painted itself over his frown, more convincing than any mask money could buy.

"Come," he said, tugging me gently back to the square and stepping out into the road towards the café. The warm smell of pastries filled my nose and my stomach growled. I blushed, but Jeremy chuckled and opened the door for me. "I'm sure you'd rather eat than listen to a tale of woe. Cream bun? I'll pay this time."

I didn't dare bring up the topic of his immediate family again that lunchtime, and he didn't press into mine. Instead, I listened to the stories of childhood summers in Rosiers-sur-Garonne and imagined what mine would have looked like if I had known him then, without a pinny chaining me to the house in Rouen.

Every so often, Jeremy would glance up and catch me studying him. At first, I ducked my gaze back to my plate, but when he simply smiled and kept chatting, I soon found myself grinning back and adding witty remarks that made him laugh all the more.

The strange thing was, I loved to hear him laugh. I loved to hear his stories. I loved the way his eyes lit up when he looked at me. When he did, I couldn't help but smile.

That never used to happen before.


	14. Chapter 12 The Time and Place

_"Everyone dies. I just choose the time and place for some of them."_  
 _~ Erik._

 **Gaston Leroux, The Phantom of the Opera.**

 **I'm feeling a bit under the weather this week, so forgive me for not editing this chapter very much at all. I've marked it as one that I need to revisit later.**

* * *

Jeremy walked me back to my room that evening. We exchanged goodbyes, which quickly became awkward when neither of us found it appropriate to simply leave one another and stood there like a pair of idiots in the hallway. To make matters worse, my door wouldn't open, and we spent the next five minutes trying to pick the lock, before Jeremy decided he'd just have to break it down for me.

The door had remained intact, thank heavens; I'd have bet money that he'd have broken at least three of his brittle bones trying to win my approval and stopped him from doing such a thing. After using several methods Erik had once shown me in Rouen, the door swung open, ending the string of useless advice we'd thrown back and forth. Another round of goodnights and I was inside.

Now, as I lit a torch on the wall of a passageway and blew out the taper, something small and furry chattered and ran between my feet. I smiled and picked up the torch, reaching down and letting the little primate scurry up my arm.

"Hello, you," I giggled, stroking Monkey Nadir's fur as he grabbed a loose lock of my hair and snuggled into my neck. He chattered all the way down to the House, jumping off my shoulder when I entered my bedroom, and scuttled over to Erik.

I stopped short. "What are you doing going through my things?"

He didn't even look over at me, pulling item after item out of the ottoman and setting them in a growing heap beside his kneeling legs. I spotted my prized first edition of _Pride and Prejudice_ sitting on the stone and snatched it up before Monkey Nadir could carry it off with him and tear the pages into a disposable nest.

"Aha!" Erik disappeared from the waist up into the ottoman. He fished about a bit and dragged something out. "Eureka!"

He stood, holding a heavy, hessian sack, and turned to me triumphantly. I frowned and lifted the side of my mouth.

"It isn't a corpse, is it?" I wasn't particularly fond of seeing bodies more than three days past their expiration date.

"What? No! It would have to be some sort of child for that. You know Erik doesn't kill children, not anymore." He walked out to the parlour, his shoes clacking rapidly down the stone steps. I rolled my eyes at the mess he'd made and abandoned, following him to make sure he wasn't going through any more of my possessions.

"Do you know where Angel is?" he asked, leafing through some papers on the spare table beside the organ. I paused at the top of the stairs.

"Angel?"

His shuffling paused. "Erm... no, not Angel. Christine."

"Of course." I trotted down the stairs with the impossible smirk sticking to my face, taking my time to kick some spare pebbles into the lake. "She's gone to visit her guardian."

Now all I needed was-

"Madame Velarus?" There it was. Erik picked something up and leant back against the table, squinting at it.

"Yes, that's her! The woman's sick, apparently. Christine told me she'd be back by tonight."

"Alright. By the way," he said, his distant voice resounding around the parlour. He held up a folded newspaper as I walked closer, letting it hang open. "Well? Explain yourself."

I grinned, spotting the title from a mile away, and took it from him.

 _YOU WILL CURSE THE DAY YOU DISOBEYED THE OPERA GHOST._  
 _Written by Charles Destler._

"Charles Destler," Erik said, raising his eyebrow at me. I smirked and skimmed the rest of the article. "What happened to keeping a low profile?"

"Who says it's me?" I said nonchalantly. Erik glared.

"You'll expose us all, woman! You, Antoinette, Nadir _and_ me!"

 _"_ _Au contraire_!" I sidled around to my nest at the back of the organ and made myself comfortable, curled up with the newspaper on my lap. "I find that the best way to conceal the truth is to hide in plain sight. Spread some rumours, let them mix with other stories. If you lie, you merely get discovered quicker."

"But the _newspaper,_ Nikki! Are you mad all of a sudden?"

I shrugged, my smirk growing broader as he slumped in his seat at the keys. "I've been writing for different publications for nearly two years now; it makes a neat little sum when you're strapped for cash. Surely you've seen a _newspaper_ within the past ten years! Madame Giry isn't _that_ ruthless. Now tell me, truly: what did you think of it? The article?"

He rolled his eyes as I tossed the newspaper aside. "Screaming gin and ignorance, that's what! Now , why are you down here? Come to steal more money from my safe?"

I pulled a face and shrank back into the nest, pulling a blanket around my shoulders over my shawl. "I'll pay you back."

"Yes, you and three others."

"Oh, don't be like that! I came to ask a few questions."

He sat up in his seat and drew a melody from the organ. "Go on."

"There's a masquerade on New Year's," I said. He didn't look up from his music, only raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement and kept playing. "Are you going to attend?"

"Is that some sort of cruel joke?" he asked, glancing up at me with a badly hidden smirk. I shrugged.

"I wouldn't put it past you."

His smile, though very soft, widened a fraction. "Would you like to see my mask for the evening?" He didn't wait for an answer but reached under the organ and hauled something from the hessian sack. Holding it up, the candlelight caught the mask of a huge death's head, casting strange shadows over its skeletal design. It was a grand thing, meant entirely to impress and frighten.

"Not going as the Phantom then?" I joked, trying to keep myself from gasping at the sight, though it would never be as terrifying as Erik's real face.

"Now that, Kitty," he said, putting the mask back, "would be far too obvious and boring."

"Your costume?"

"Is strictly for my eyes only," he tapped the corner of his mask's eyehole. "Big reveal and all that. Very hush-hush."

"You're going then."

"I don't see why I shouldn't. It's my opera house, after all. Shouldn't the resident ghost have an automatic invitation to all events?"

My eyebrows went up of their own accord.

"Just don't go causing any trouble this time," I warned, looking back at the parchment before me. "I should like to enjoy a normal masquerade and not have to pick up your debris again. I haven't forgotten the one from 1873, you know."

He smiled and pressed a few notes on the organ, a cheeky and mysterious piece that left me frowning even more and set him smirking.

"I mean it, Erik. No tricks. Sit with someone for the dinner, or dance with some ladies. Act natural, please. And maybe tone the mask if you want to blend in. I'm not sure seeing a skeleton prancing about is going to attract many offers for the waltz."

His smile dimmed but didn't shrink, suddenly quite plastic and fake on his face. "I'll try."

"Thank you, Erik _."_ He flashed his eyebrows and played the opening bars to a Mozart piece. I drummed my pen against the table, listening to the dripping of condensation. "By the way, I want access to the main event. None of the backstage nonsense."

Erik played a short scale down the organ, giving me a very dry look.

"And a plus one for Jeremy."

"Why?"

"Why not?" His glare intensified, his eyes setting light to the edges of my mind. I tossed my hands up. "Alright! Because Guillaume will most likely be at the non-admission one, and I would like to spend the evening _without_ being groped by him and his cowboys! Is that so much to ask?"

Erik sighed, working his jaw back and forth. His eyes roamed the parlour for a moment. "I'm beginning to think you only keep friendship with me because I elevate your status in this Opera House. First box-attendant, now this. What are you trying to achieve here?"

"What I've always been trying to achieve. Management." He grumbled, setting his fingers back to the keys and testing out a new melody. "Oh, don't be like that, Erik! You always complain about the managers. Why don't you just help me and kill two birds with one stone?"

"There's an idea," he muttered.

"I suppose you think you're hilarious. Leave Jeremy alone, got it?"

Jeremy. A thought rushed back to the front of my mind. I drew a sharp breath. Erik looked up, frowning.

"What is it now?"

I looked away, shaking my head.

"Nikki. Really. What are you plotting?"

I traced the streaks of condensation on the floor with my eyes, drowning in a flood of thought. How could I ever accuse him of this? Did I even have to accuse him? Why was this so difficult all of a sudden?

"Erik... what happened to Jeremy's father and fiancée?"

Silence. The dripping of condensation became the only sound. Erik's glare burned into me, and when I looked up to meet his eyes, they narrowed even further.

"Why are you so interested in him all of a sudden?" he said, his voice low and steely. I frowned back and sat straighter in my seat.

"Don't take that tone with me! He's my friend; why shouldn't I know about his family? And then he tells me that the Opera Ghost killed the people he cared for most of all! How can you make it out that _I'm_ wrong here? Why are they dead, Erik? Why did you-"

"For the same reason you hide behind a mask!" he snapped, slamming a hand down onto the lower scales. The pipes beside me shook with vibrating wails. He stood violently, knocking the stool to the floor with a clatter, and leant against the top of the organ to glare down at me. "They found me out! They stormed down here with torches and revolvers and God knows what else! _Shoot to kill!_ That's what they were yelling!"

"Erik-"

 _"No!"_ He kicked the leg of the organ with such force it splintered. "Desrosiers had an entire _troop_ of men down here; what was I _supposed_ to do? Invite them in for _afternoon tea?_ 'Oh yes, Monsieur Desrosiers, have a bagel and tell me what brings you down here with guns and fire and a band of angry men, drunk on rage! Oh, you wish to kill me and put me on display in the Louvre? Why, I'd be _elated_ to comply! Tell me, when do you need me? Will Tuesday work well?'"

"Oh, don't be like that, Erik! What about Julianna? You promised me you'd never kill another woman, or a child!"

"She was already half dead," he snarled, hitting the top of the organ and stalking around the side to block my exit. I shrank back, my heart in my throat.

I _shrank back._ I tried to _cower_ from _Er_ _ik._

 _Don't be stupid,_ I reminded myself, and sat upright, keeping his glare.

"I found her in a trap, only half conscious. She was in a terrible state. Probably been there for hours. I couldn't save her, I couldn't..." He gritted his teeth and shut his eyes tight. "I simply _couldn't._ She begged me to put her out of her pain - for she was in monumental pain, and missing two of her limbs."

"So you did it," I muttered, looking down at the sheet I was supposed to be using to plan my next report. Erik kicked the floor, scuffing his neat, black shoes. My voice lowered to a whisper. "Erik? Was it quick?"

He nodded, just the slightest nod that could easily have been missed if I'd blinked at the wrong moment. "Her neck was so brittle, it—"

"Oh, _please!"_ I felt my stomach turn and batted his words away. "I can't listen to details, not now!"

Erik shook his head and stood upright, straightening his waistcoat. He headed towards me, though I didn't look up from the paper, and slipped behind me, aiming for the door behind the pipes. It creaked open, painfully slow, and he paused on the threshold.

"Go back upstairs, Nikki," he said at last, doing his best to mask the few cracks in his voice with fierceness and confidence. "And don't let Christine down for her lesson either. I'm taking the rest of the day off."

"But you never-"

The door slammed shut, leaving me alone in the parlour. Down the hall, Erik's bedroom door closed, gently this time. Whatever happened next was either too soft for me to hear, or blocked by the panels he'd designed to keep his music solely to his room and away from me. But even so, I still heard him scream. However quiet he tried to be, I would always hear him scream.

I knew what he was doing, and there was nothing in the world I could do to help him. I gathered my things and headed for the passageway in my room, spotting Monkey Nadir hiding under my bed as I went. He tried to scurry after me, but I picked him up and let him settle on my bed in a nest of sheets, wishing I could shrink to his size and join him. But I couldn't, and I headed back up to the surface, dragging myself up one long flight of stairs at a time.

I was not a monkey, I was a woman. A woman with a plan that made no time for distractions. I held my head up high, took a deep breath, and pushed the Angel aside. The hair on my bare arms stood up at the rush of wintery cold, and I pulled my shawl tight around my shoulders, spying my violin in its case nearby. One hour wouldn't hurt, would it?

* * *

Raoul was taking Christine's cloak from her and hanging it up when I tiptoed down the hall, my violin case slung over my back. Their soft voices rose to the rafters and mingled there, broken by the occasional laugh or giggle. A floorboard creaked beneath my foot and they both looked up.

"Oh, Nikki!" Christine hurried forwards and took me by the arms, leading me back to the Vicomte. "You must meet Raoul! Dearest, this is the lady I told you about earlier!"

 _Told him what?_

I gritted my jaw. The Vicomte held my gaze, no less begrudgingly, and offered me his hand. I took it for civility's sakes.

"Yes, we keep meeting," he said, bowing to kiss my glove. I took it back as soon as etiquette allowed; he was, despite everything, a vicomte, and I could not be the one to seem too eager to escape. Christine, who showed little to no knowledge of the growing coldness between her fiancé and I, smiled up at him and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

"Thank you for the day out," she said, unable to wipe the loving smiles away as she brushed a stray lock of golden hair behind his ear. Then, as a whisper, so no one else - in the deserted hallway - could hear: "We must do it again sometime."

She drew away, laughing as Raoul blushed and smoothed down his hair. "Don't you have a music lesson to attend?" he said, catching my eye for just a minute and looking away again. "You mustn't keep your teacher waiting like this."

"It's alright," I muttered, letting Christine catch my arm and walk me down the corridor.

"Music teacher?" I repeated once we'd reached my room again. Christine shrugged, letting me go in favour of bouncing around, admiring all the masks I had laying around on the vanity table. She made herself more than at home on the stool and picked one up to let it catch the light of a candle. I snatched it back with a glare, shaking it before her face. "Christine, answer truthfully: what does Raoul know about all of this? I thought I could trust you to keep my secrets! _Erik_ thinks he can trust you!"

"Hush!" she insisted. "Do you think me a child? You aren't the only woman who knows how to deceive and lie. I have kept the secret of the Angel for seven years."

"Erik is not a fairytale," I stressed, flopping down on my bed and leaving my violin case at my feet. "He is _real_. He is a man, a man who isn't the same as gentlemen like Raoul! If you force him to act in defence, he won't do anything by halves."

Christine scowled, her normally angelic, heart-shaped face contorting into a series of lines and creases. Her big, sweet eyes narrowed at me. For once in my life, I found myself truly intimidated by a woman I'd never imagined could be so frightening, and I froze on my bed.

"I am not a child!" she snapped, her hands balling into fists, gathering clumps of her evening dress. "I told Raoul that you were teaching me to play the violin, and how I thanked God when you came up the hall by coincidence with the case already with you! But Erik is my secret! He is _my_ Angel!"

I shook some sense back into my body, setting my own scowl into place behind my mask. "I know you two are engaged," I said, and this time it was her turn to freeze. "I know you told Raoul about Erik. Oh, yes, we heard everything on the rooftop, Christine Daae! I spent the rest of the night trying first to coax him away from throwing himself from that roof and then comforting him as he wept into my dress! He is a _man,_ Christine, with feelings like any other. You could have killed him!"

By this point, I was standing, and Christine trembling. She ducked her chin into her chest, toying with her long fingers.

"Is he alright?" she whispered. I didn't say a word, and she looked back up at me, her eyes wide and fearful again. Erik's pained screams ran through my ears again, and I looked away. "He isn't, is he?"

"His mood today is not about you, for once," I sighed, catching sight of my mask in the vanity table mirror. _"I_ pushed him into this one. But what can I do? He blocks his door to me when he... when he..."

"When he hurts himself, you mean," she whispered, her voice catching. She cleared her throat and looked over at the Angel in the corner. "Let me go to him. He'll listen to me. I'll talk him out of his room and comfort him as best I can."

I shook my head as she stepped over to the Angel. "There is nothing to be done with Erik except to run away at times like this. The damage will already have been done."

But Christine was already shoving the Angel to the side, muttering something about Erik showing her some important passageways. She smiled at her triumph and stepped through, pausing to look back at me. "Are you coming?"

But I shook my head again and picked up my violin case. "I have somewhere to be. And for God's sakes, Christine, be _careful!_ He's unpredictable when he's so upset!"

She nodded and disappeared into the darkness. The Angel slid back with the whir of wheels and a thud.

 _Erik cannot be helped by anyone,_ Nadir had once said as I'd stared at the locked door to my friend's room and listened to the terrible sounds coming from behind it. He'd said it to silence me and had sent me back into the kitchen, shutting me in out of the way, then broken down the locked door. The cacophony that followed still haunted me.

I thought of Jeremy, of his bright eyes and laughter, and lifted my chin higher, striding out into the torchlit corridor with intent. Just for an evening, I wanted to trade my life for its polar opposite, trade Erik for Jeremy.

 _What's come over_ _you, Nikita?_


	15. Chapter 13 The Mystery of Isidore Saack

_"Then the ghost had not broken his leg?" asked M._ _Moncharmin_ _, a little vexed that his figure had made so little impression on Mme._ _Giry_ _._

 _"He did break it for him, sir," replied Mme._ _Giry_ _haughtily. "He broke it for him on the grand staircase, which he ran down too fast, sir, and it will be long before the poor gentleman will be able to go up it again!"_

 **Gaston Leroux, The Phantom of the Opera**.

* * *

"That box doesn't have a gold wall," I said, dropping the violin from my shoulder. Jeremy sighed, louder than the last few times, and caught my eye. The dying gaslight cast flickering glows through his curls and shimmered in his eyes and, from where I was standing with my violin and he was sitting at his easel, I was afforded a decent view of his near-complete painting of the auditorium. For once, I didn't feel the need to stare in fondness, and I turned the music sheets on the stand.

"Who stole your cream?" he muttered, swirling his brush in his water jar and going back to the red paint. I rolled my eyes and turned to a different page.

"Don't. I get enough grief from cat jokes from the other one as it is."

He frowned and looked at me between spins. "Cat jokes? Other one?"

The brush wandered over the canvas aimlessly. I waved the bow at him with a scowl. "Jeremy, _concentrate!"_

He jerked and grabbed the rag from the floor, dabbing away the mark with muttered frustration.

We'd commandeered auditorium for the night, but this time I'd joined him on stage. Already though, I was beginning to wonder why I'd given up my bed for this caper.

The page I'd just set toppled from the stand with the wind of my skirts and fluttered to the floor.

"Oh, for heaven's sakes!" I dragged the bow over the violin strings haphazardly. Jeremy winced.

"Nikki," he murmured, and I knew what he meant before he said it. His voice was low and quiet, patient. He stood from his stool, watching me pensively. I glared at the music scores, fighting to keep my gaze from him, and gritted my jaw until I thought it would shatter.

"I'm fine," I growled for the millionth time that evening, pretending to fine tune the violin.

"Nikki."

The gaslamps burned quietly at the front of the stage, the only sound to fill the auditorium until a pair of footsteps made the floorboards creak softly.

Jeremy's hand rested on my arm, halting my drawing of the bow. I froze. He took a long, quiet breath. The gaslamps flickered on.

"If there's something you-"

"There isn't," I snapped, knocking his hand off with a flick of my elbow.

"Look, I didn't press into anything this morning because it wasn't the right thing to do. But now I'm worried about you, Nikki."

I raised my eyes to glare at the hundreds of empty, velvet chairs, catching sight of Jeremy's anxious face in my limited peripheral vision. Somewhere beneath the stage, rats scurried about, their claws scratching the wood.

"Why would you worry?" I asked.

"Because you're my friend," was his simple, quiet reply. His hand returned to my arm and as much as I knew I should shrug him off again, I now found it somehow impossible. How could I, when he was being so gentle? Others had dug into my business as farmers dug up potatoes and had tossed the rotten bits to the side in disgust. But Jeremy hadn't. Not once.

I tried to scoff, but it came out hushed. "Then you must truly be insane."

He said nothing but took his hand away and opened his arms to me; there was no pity in his eyes, an emotion I'd come to hate.

My foot twitched to go to him. My hands ached to wrap themselves around his thin waist.

 _Her neck was so brittle, it..._

It snapped clean away.

I closed my eyes against the sudden longing to just be held and straightened out my posture, swallowing down a lump of dryness and holding my chin high. The violin rested back on my shoulder and I set the bow to the string once more.

"That streak needs fixing properly."

His face fell, and something within me crumbled as I played on.

* * *

"And here was me, wondering when you'd make an appearance," Madame Giry said as I let my gathered dress go and fetched the new uniform from her arms. "Is there any day you're early for work, Nikki?"

"Erik said he wanted to see me before I started," I panted. Madame Giry raised one thin, grey eyebrow.

"And?"

"And the impudent child had the nerve to keep me waiting all evening! I've spent two whole hours in that kitchen and had to sprint all the way up here!" I splayed my hands at my dress, panting. "I'm _wearing_ _a_ _c_ _orset_ _!"_ I went to hurry up the hall towards the steps that led down to the servants quarters, when something bright caught my eye, almost blinding me. I hissed and swatted the light away.

A horseshoe sat on the table outside the concierge office, catching the light from the overhead candles in their chandeliers. I frowned at it, halting in my tracks.

"Care to explain this little curio?"

Madame Giry folded her arms and cast her gaze to the horseshoe. "It appears we must discuss Erik's latest habits," she said, her voice dry and stretched. She touched the horseshoe and blessed herself. "The _corps de ballet_ has gone mad with rumours within the last few days: some claim to have seen a man, with a black coat hanging off his skeleton like some sort of undertaker and a head of death, walking the corridors at random times of the day and night."

"And the horseshoe is there because..."

She glanced up at me, a string of grey hair falling from her bun. "Why do you think? Superstition. They think him a real spectre. And if you don't get his little strolls under control, there's going to be a lot more trouble than a few hysterical young ladies claiming to have seen the devil himself stalking the halls."

"Well when you see him, tell me, and _then_ I'll talk to him about it. He's disappeared into thin air!" I turned to head for the boxes on the grand tier.

"Did you check Christine's dressing room?"

That made me stop still, one foot raised to take another step. I let it fall and glanced over my shoulder at her.

"No, and I'm not trailing all the way over there just to have an argument with the man that's already tried to kill himself within the past two days."

Madame Giry stilled for a moment. It was a moment I used to hurry away towards my bedroom to change.

Jeremy was walking the corridors when I got close, carrying a small mountain of chain and rope around his body. I pressed a smile down.

"And who are _you_ trying to murder?" I said as we crossed paths. He only laughed and shrugged them further up his arms onto his shoulders.

"I think there's been enough murder for now! But perhaps we can catch a ghost, no?"

I forced a smile and gathered my new uniform a bit.

"Don't look at me like that, Nikki," he chuckled, pulling some chain away from the floor where it had begun to drag. "It's for Nevel. To pull the scenes into place."

I swallowed and lifted my chin. "I knew that."

Jeremy chuckled again and, somehow, amidst the chains and rope that hung loosely around his neck, nodded a cheery goodbye.

I ran the rest of the way and locked myself in my bedroom, letting out a lengthy sigh. Whatever was happening to me when I looked at Jeremy, whatever spell he'd put on me, I'd have to sort it out sharpish.

I couldn't afford any more distractions.

* * *

As the crowds began to gather that evening, I fiddled with my evening dress and bit my lip. As a box-attendant, it was my job to assist the guests and tend to their needs. I would be at yet another party's beck and call for the foreseeable future, but the pay would be rather good and it would keep me out of the way of the gendarmes for a while. And yet, everything Madame Giry had told me earlier, everything I'd picked up from that booklet, all seemed to fade away into oblivion. I leaned over to whisper a plea for help in her ear, but she frowned and batted me away. Monsieur Firmin, who stood at the other end of the hall talking to a patron, paid no heed either.

"Mesdames. Messieurs," she greeted a group as they walked along the landing by the grand tier boxes towards us. "Might I introduce you to your box-attendant for the night? This is Mademoiselle de La Chance. She will escort you to your seat."

I managed a short curtsey and smiled my best. All four of them stared long and hard at my mask, various level of bewilderment in their eyes.

"I will leave you in her capable hands," Madame Giry said with a curt nod. I glanced after her as she hurried to greet the next group.

"May I see your reservation papers?" I asked, a little quieter than I would have liked. Clearing my throat, I added, "You will have received them at the Box Office when you gave your names."

The frontmost gentleman exchanged a wary glance at the lady by his side, a look I knew off by heart by now, but handed over the papers without a word. I smiled and took them.

Box Five.

 _Oh, for Heaven's-!_

Aware that my smile had fallen slightly, I plastered it back on. The gentleman's face had become stony, his lady's bored, and a series of whispers were beginning to arise from the other two behind them.

"Wait here, please," I said, turning and heading for Monsieur Firmin. He barely looked up as I hurried towards him, only sparing me his attention when I cleared my throat. The patron took one look at my mask and frowned.

"What's the matter?" Firmin muttered, casting his gaze to the grumbling theatre-goers behind me.

"Box Five," I muttered back, catching his eye knowingly.

"Then open it."

My heart stopped for a moment and I felt a rush of chill shoot down my back. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Open the Box."

"But-"

"I am the manager here," Firmin snapped, pulling me back towards the group. I glared back at him, wriggling about in an attempt to free myself. "Not the Phantom."

"Of course," I snapped, pulling myself free with every bit of strength I had. "Because it isn't as if a rampaging, psychopathic _murderer_ is going to have any objections to this! Monsieur, we have _seen him kill!"_

"Mademoiselle," Firmin said, waving a fat, gloved finger in my face. I pushed his hand away in disgust. "You are under my orders, not the Phantom's. Unless you wish for your first evening as a box-attendant to be your last, you will open the door."

My job over my seat. First the Comte and Vicomte, and now this? How dare they? How _dare_ they! It was blackmail! They'd tricked me! I shoved the key to the box into Firmin's hand with a scowl. He frowned, and then curled his fingers around it, glaring at me.

"Very well, Mademoiselle. You are dismissed from your employment in this Opera House; I expect your things to be cleared out by tonight. Goodnight. Mesdames, Messieurs, this way, if you please."

I stepped back and ignored the haughty frowns and whispers as the group headed into newly opened Box Five, past the open-armed, smiling Firmin. Turning on my heel, I marched down the hall towards the exit.

* * *

"You're _what?_ " Jeremy cried, his eyes as large as oranges. A nearby stagehand snapped his gaze to us in horror. I slapped my gloved hand over his gaping mouth with a hiss.

"Keep your voice down, man! People will think we're having a whirlwind romance gone wrong! Promise not to be so loud?" He nodded. I pried my hand away. Jeremy's mouth remained agape. "Yes, I've been dismissed."

He closed his mouth and stared at his shuffling feet, kicking some dust about into a little pile. Come to think of it, the quarters he worked in couldn't be doing much for his health. I glanced about the large, open space, lit by a few lanterns here and there. The place was littered with beams and dust and men calling to their workmates as they led their horses about, hauling scenes into place below the stage.

"I have an apartment in the Rue Bichat," he muttered, glancing at me. "If you need somewhere to stay-"

I shook his offer off. "No need; I may even be back before the week is up."

His eyes narrowed, his brow knit into a tight frown. "I'm sorry, Nikki, I don't-"

"Let's just say that getting rid of Nikki de La Chance is no mean feat," I said. "I have my ways: this is not goodbye."

He eyed me bashfully, his hand twitching. "I'm sorry for any hassle you might endure."

I smiled smally, a useless attempt at reassurance.

The _should I, shouldn't I_ 's rushed back and forth through those eyes. My mouth hung as he acted on sheer impulse and took my hand, kissing it, if a little forcefully.

"Goodnight," Jeremy said, flushing a deep red. He hurried away into the dusty air, catching the harness of a huge, grey horse, which whickered at the sight of him and stepped into action at his signal.

I spent the next half-hour repacking my belongings and heading down to the House, trying to calm my growing anger towards the manager by thinking of that little, chaste kiss

It didn't work very well.

* * *

"I forgive you for killing Buquet," I called, lugging my suitcase into the House. Erik's head snapped up from the organ with a crunch of low notes and bone. His wig slipped sideways and over his masked eyes, and he fumbled to try and straighten it, blinking rapidly to wake himself up. "In fact, I promise not to report you if you do one thing for me that _might_ be classified as 'highly illegal'."

He frowned and rubbed the unmasked side of his face, yawning. "And what would that be?"

* * *

"Haha! Julie certainly isn't playing at sleeping!"

I smirked as the gentleman who'd handed me the papers, who I now knew as Monsieur Maniera, frowned and glanced at his wife, rubbing his ear. Erik took another deep breath as the performance of Gounod's Faust went on and threw his voice once more. He murmured something in Monsieur Isidore Saack's ear, who was sitting on the other side of Madame Maniera, something no one, not even I, though I stood right next to Erik in the hollow pillar, could hear.

Mephistopheles went on with his serenade, and Erik drew yet another long breath. He shifted his tongue in his mouth and spoke once more. "Haha! Julie wouldn't mind according a kiss to Isidore!"

I had to slap my hand over my mouth to stop myself from crying out in glee when Monsieur Maniera turned around to see Isidore kissing the horrified Madame Maniera's hand with gusto. Erik smiled his thin, barely-existent smile. With a sharp bark, Monsieur Maniera stood from his seat, lunging at Isidore Saack.

"Thank you," I whispered as the men fought like wildcats. He rolled his eyes and looked back at me.

"You are the most evil woman I have ever met," he said dryly. I smirked and licked the crowns of my front teeth teasingly, then turned back to watch the scene unfold. The auditorium filled with anguished shouts and cries. People screamed for the men to stop, that they'd end up killing each other. I peered through a little crack in the pillar at the scuffle, a grinning triumphantly. The door to the box opened with the shouts of a _gendarme_ and Isidore Saack, seeing his chance, fled. I made to leave the pillar but Erik caught me in the darkness and shook his head.

"What is that _gendarme_ going to say when he sees _you_ leaving a pillar of supposedly solid marble?"

"Fair point," I smiled, leaning back against the wall and listening to the uproar we'd caused. My heart soared and I simply couldn't stop grinning.

I learned later that night from Madame Giry that Isidore had broken his leg when he'd sprinted down the Grand Escalier and had to be taken to hospital. The next day, the newspaper published this headline:

 ** _The Curious Mystery of Monsieur Isidore Saack._**

 ** _Article by Charles Destler._**


	16. Chapter 14 The Evil-Eyed Chaperone

**Starwatcher2018:** _thanks for the love! I held off on saying anything until this week because there's a bit in this chapter that might answer a few questions!_

 **Violet the BroadwayxDisneyfan:** _thanks to you as well for all your comments! I can't say how much I appreciate them!_

* * *

 _"Gabriel was in the stage manager's office. Suddenly the door opened and the Persian entered. You know the Persian has the evil eye-_ _"_

 **~Cécile Jammes.**

 **Gaston Leroux, The Phantom of the Opera.**

* * *

 _"Never seek to tell thy love_  
 _Love that never told can be_  
 _For the gentle wind does move_  
 _Silently invisibly."_

I sighed in content. I'd read this poem so many times, yet it never ceased to move me so wonderfully. William Blake, you clever man you! I'd scrambled to get my hands on the newest edition of his works last year, and could hardly contain my swoons over the blue and gold cover as I'd paid for it. It had quickly become a prized possession.

I was sitting in _Le_ _Café_ _de_ _l'Opéra_ again, the remnants of my croissant growing colder by the moment. The morning sun lit the little table in golden rays, illuminating my page. I couldn't help but smile, despite my situation. It was a beautiful, late autumn morning, almost November, with crisp, gold, red and brown leaves blowing occasionally in gentle breezes: the perfect goodbye to summer.

Well. _Almost_ perfect. There was only one thing I faulted the morning for: I was sitting in the café alone.

It was Sunday, three days after I'd been dismissed, and Jeremy had gone to Mass. I myself had decided to spend my day of rest reading.

I normally loved being by myself: most of my life had been spent in my own company. So why was it now that I craved the presence of another person? Why Jeremy?

I stared at the poem with intent, trying to distract myself from my own thoughts as the bell over the door rang. _I can't look up, I must_ _focus—_

"Is this seat free?"

I froze, peering up at the source of the voice. The person smiled, his skin old and wrinkled, covered in dark hair that sloped into a thick beard. Even with the sun backlighting him, I recognised the figure with ease, and my mouth hung open.

"Close your mouth, my friend. It's unseemly for women to imitate fish."

I opened and closed my mouth uselessly, searching for something to say but drawing several blanks. Something small and furry brushed against my legs and hopped onto my table, where it sat beside my plate and studied me with slit, blue eyes.

"The cat is giving me the evil eye," was all I could manage. The man laughed and picked the little thing up. I glanced over my shoulder at Madame Fournier as she cleaned away some plates, at the way her lip curled up at the sight of the cat on my table.

The man took the seat opposite me and set the snooty Siamese cat on his lap. It continued to watch me with an air of superiority.

"This is Ayesha," said the man, fondling her ears as the door bell chimed once more. She closed her eyes as he rubbed her neck and a low purr escaped her throat.

"Ayesha," I repeated. "Life. An interesting choice, Daroga. How did that come about?"

"Because when you spend ten years keeping an eye on Death himself, a change is quite welcome!" he laughed. Ayesha, bored of sitting quietly, climbed out of his lap and back onto the table.

"Monsieur Khan!" Madame Fournier cried behind me. "This is a polite society restaurant, not a farmyard! Please remove the cat at once!"

"Good morning to you too, Madame!" he chuckled, fetching the cat back. She flicked her tea towel at him, trying to be angry for his kitten's capers. "Do you have a cup of tea hiding somewhere for me?"

She rolled her eyes but bustled into the kitchen without another word. I giggled and he smiled on.

"I need to ask a favour from you, Nikki," the Daroga said, pressing a kiss to Ayesha's ears and ruffling her fur. He passed her across the table and set her in my arms, where she immediately looked around for her owner and hissed at me. "I'm going to Spain for a few months now that you're in Paris; Erik never seems to run out of tricks, and watching him has become quite tedious after all these years. I'm sure you understand my need to embark on a holiday."

"I suppose it's only fair," I said, thinking, in between Ayesha's claw attacks, of my five years of evading the law. "And let me take a well-educated guess: you want me to look after Ayesha."

"She already knows her way around the House," the Daroga smiled, reaching forwards the untangle one of her paws from a loose lock of my hair. "Erik loves her, surprisingly enough."

"The day I see that is the day I get a normal face," I muttered, stroking Ayesha until she ceased scratching and purred instead. The Daroga smiled smally.

"I did notice the mask."

"Yes, well..." I sighed, letting the cat curl up in my lap and stretch her paws. "If you ever have to drag yourself out of a burning building, find me and I shall lend you one."

Despite my dark humour, he threw his head back and laughed, his sides heaving by the time he'd finished.

"Neither of you ever change, do you?" he said between breathless chuckles.

"Excuse me."

I turned and my gaze fell on Jeremy, impeccably dressed in his Sunday best, his tousles brushed back, much tidier than usual. I smiled, feeling my covered cheeks warming. He nodded to the Daroga and lay a hand on my shoulder.

"I'm sorry to interrupt your conversation—"

"No, no," the Daroga said, standing from his seat and straightening out his coat. His eyes flickered between Jeremy and I. A smile spread over his thin, dark lips. "I was just leaving. Thank you once more for looking after my little treasure, Nikki. You'll find her very amiable, I'm sure."

I could almost swear Ayesha scowled when he said that, because not a second later, she let out a loud yowl and scratched my arm quite vicously. I cried out and tossed her to Jeremy, inspecting the rip in my dress.

Jeremy fumbled with the cat, uttering random syllables as he fought to keep her from running out the door. The Daroga slipped outside; he spared me a little wave as he hurried past the window, but then he was gone, merged with the flock of Parisians in the square.

"Are you alright?" Jeremy asked, catching Ayesha's paws before she could do any more damage and trapping her beneath his arm, where she sulked. He ducked down beside me and regarded my arm with concern.

"I won't bleed out," I replied, trying to compress the scratch, deeper than I thought, with my napkin. But Jeremy shifted Ayesha a bit, took my hand in his free one, and kissed the wound softly. I froze, drawing a sharp breath, thankful that the café was empty and that Madame Fournier had disappeared behind the counter.

He blushed, barely meeting my eyes. "Better?"

I couldn't form words. I couldn't speak. I sat there like a fish, however improper the Daroga deemed that to be, and nodded smally. Jeremy went a deeper shade of red and stood, pulling me to my feet.

"I thought we might go for a little walk in the park, but as we have a tag along, perhaps that won't be so possible. Have you already eaten?"

"Nonsense," I squeaked, then cleared my throat. "She will be our chaperone. All be it an evil-eyed chaperone, but our chaperone none the less!"

I took him by the arm, left five sous on the counter for Madame Fournier before he could protest and opened the door with a chime. Ayesha squirmed beneath his grip, but he held tight, following me out into the square.

"Besides, we never simply get to talk. We're either working, away or arguing. So come on; tell me once more about your home."

* * *

"Rosiers-sur-Garonne is one of the most beautiful places on Earth," Jeremy said, as we strolled through the streets towards the Pont Royal, Ayesha trotting along beside us; I'd used my shoe strings to fashion a lead onto her collar, and, despite the glances we were being thrown for walking a cat, it was working quite well. "In fact, I think it's... the _second_ most beautiful thing in the world that comes to mind."

The slapping of water just ahead told me that the Seine was near. The smell of dirty silt mixed with the smoke of fireplaces was rampant along the quay; it had taken me a long while to get used to when I first came to Paris, and even longer to get used to fresh air once I left for Germany.

"It's nothing like Paris," Jeremy went on as we reached the end of the street and turned onto the quayside. "There's fields all around, endless fields that stretch almost to the horizon. I remember, when I was a boy, my cousin and I would run out into the fields and jump on the horses. We'd race all day, often out to the village for the sweet shops there. And not mention the endless grape snaffling in the vineyards! It's a wonder we weren't caught drunk off our heads at times!"

"It sounds fun," I said, adjusting my arm in his as we walked to the bridge. It beat my childhood summers of cleaning the house in Rouen, of walking along the streets with comments being thrown at me or of finding Erik in trouble once more.

"Yes. It was better than staying at home, or being packed off to boarding school."

My mouth hung open, and I received a mouthful of smokey air for it. "You went to _boarding_ school?"

Jeremy laughed, as if he'd heard that phrase a million times. "Don't get too excited. I was sent away when I was five, came home for the holidays and then I was sent to Rosiers for the summer. But it didn't last."

"How so?"

He smirked, but it was accompanied by a blush and he had to look at his feet. "I was expelled when I was eight."

If this morning hadn't been strange enough, it just became even more so. I felt as if I should wake up. But Jeremy glanced up at me again, and I remembered that this was no dream.

"You? Expelled?"

He shrugged, huffing a shy laugh, and we stepped onto the bridge. Ayesha tried to squeeze through the pillars that separated us from the Seine, but I hissed and tugged her back. She regarded me with pure contempt and trotted on.

"The Desrosiers men have always had a high level of education. It was the one thing my grandfather - God rest his soul - agreed to fund for me after he disowned Papa. But I suppose I'm not as intelligent as the others. It wasn't for bad behaviour that I was expelled; I just wasn't good enough."

He said it with such conviction that I couldn't help but pity him slightly. But then he chuckled to himself and looked down into my eyes with a fresh smile.

"But I'm sure the boys in my class would turn their noses up at cleaning out Nevel's stable, or pulling sets into place every night. Heaven help them if they had to clean the chains and ropes! Sometimes, we don't need to be good at what everyone else is. Someone has to do the dirty work, after all. Besides, where's the fun in being a lawyer anyhow?"

I thought that over for a second and nodded. "I see your point."

Jeremy paused to lean against the side of the bridge, watching the river beneath our feet as it disappeared under the bridge. "What about you?" he said after a short pause, looking back at me. I joined him in looking over the side. "How did Nikki de La Chance find herself in Paris?"

I couldn't help but chuckle. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

And he really wouldn't. Not many people could wrap their minds around the fact that someone could not show their face in polite society. It was a lesson Erik and I had learned the hard way; woe to anyone thereafter who tried their luck. The mystery of my mask had always seemed to attract the wrong attention, with disastrous consequences for those unfortunate people, and over my dead body would Jeremy, pure and gentle, ever know what it hid.

"The basics?" he asked. I snapped out of my mind and found myself staring at him. My face grew warm with blush, and I looked away.

"Well, I was born and raised in Rouen..."

His eyebrows shot up. "Really?"

"Yes. I was a maid there during my childhood. I started when I was eight and I finished when... well, I was twelve when the house burned down."

Jeremy pursed his lips, nodding slightly, and stared into the water at our hazy reflections again. "Perhaps we knew each other?"

"Not likely," I scoffed, "if you were away so often."

Silence descended for a minute or two and the Paris ambience resumed its place as the main sound. That was until:

"I know you've been dismissed," Jeremy said, "— and I'm going to do everything in my power to change that — but would you like to join me in the stage shifting department tomorrow? I could show you how we work the horses, how we attach the sets, anything!"

 _Erik._ "Jeremy, I do believe my schedule for tomorrow is—"

Wait. Why did I have to spend the day with Erik? I wasn't leaving Paris anytime soon, not for a year or two, perhaps more if I avoided the police a bit longer than usual. Why _couldn't_ I spend it working with Jeremy?

"Actually, I'd like that."

His smile grew and grew. "Really?"

"Really!" I replied. "It will be a good experience!"

His smile shrank, but the light in his eyes could never fade. He pulled me to his side gently and wrapped his arm around my shoulders as much as etiquette could allow. "Thank you, Nikki."

I gazed into the Seine at the hazy shadows that moved in synchronisation with our occasional shuffling and rested my head against Jeremy's shoulder.

"Jeremy?"

"Mmm?" When I didn't continue for a moment, "Nikki?"

I sucked in a long breath. "Do you... believe in not judging a book by its cover?"

"I wouldn't know; I'm not the type that reads much. But I assume you're talking about people, so I will say yes, I believe in it."

One of the little waves in the river slapped against the bank. I felt like it had washed over me instead, cool and relieving, washing doubt downstream. I lifted my head from his shoulder, brushing some loose hair from his forehead. My hand trailed to his cheek. Jeremy closed his eyes and leaned into my palm, raising his hand to keep mine in place. My heart jerked, sending a lump to my throat. Would it be rather bold to kiss him in the street, with so many onlookers?

I raised myself onto my toes, my heart winning the debate. Jeremy opened his eyes by a fraction and smiled, tilting his head slightly. All thoughts of propriety tumbled from my mind; it was just Jeremy and I, on a bridge by a river.

His tongue slipped over his lips like a flash. I stood completely transfixed by them, by his soft eyes, entranced when his hand gently caught the small of my back. I leaned up just a bit further. Just a few more inches...

Ayesha yowled as the bird she was hissing at lunged for her.

Jeremy whipped around to look, and I stared over his shoulder at the scene. It would have been comical if I didn't suddenly want to rip her throat out. He muttered something that sounded like _"fasted hat,"_ but his voice was lost to the wind and I didn't quite understand.

The walk back to the Opera House was unbearably quiet.


	17. Chapter 15 Pt1 The Phantom of the Opera

**_I'm here, The Phantom of the Opera!_**  
 **~Erik**

 **Andrew Lloyd Webber, The Phantom of the Opera.**

~•~•~•~■~•~•~•~

By the time the sixth hour struck and the bells began to chime in the sitting room, I was already dressed and walking about the House with a song in my throat. Somehow I'd woken up with a new spring in my step and I felt more alive.

I'd sort of taken over the House on the Lake over the past few days and hadn't dared to step foot outside until yesterday, just in case any gendarmes' curiosity had been piqued by any rumours. As a result, the vast majority of the fifth cellar had been reorganised and tidied up until I was satisfied and Erik had stopped grumbling. He had given me a coolish shoulder ever since Christine appeared for a lesson and I'd told her he was out, but never mind. They'd both thank me sooner or later.

He was by the organ when I entered, still furiously scribbling away at _Don Juan Triumphant._ Humming, I stepped over and set a plate of gypsy toast down on top of the instrument beside his mask, pushing the ever-growing mountain of paper aside.

"Good morning!" I said, my voice higher than usual. He grunted in reply and kept scribbling, occasionally testing some notes.

"Where are you going?" he muttered as I stepped into the hall, leaving the door open.

"Up Top," I replied, pulling my hair into a bun and fastening it with pins from the nearby dresser. "Jeremy is showing me the scene-shifting department. Why?"

He muttered something about a celery and 'mops knives.'

"I can't hear a word you're saying," I said, reentering the parlour and heading up the steps to my room and the passageway. "Wish me luck!"

He didn't, or if he did he muttered it to himself.

I hurried up through the freezing passageways towards my old room. The Angel moved easily and I hurried over to the door, grabbing the key from its chain around my neck. It opened easily, and, after making sure no one in the corridor to see me, I slipped out and hurried on towards the stage.

A few people stared as I went past. The story of the masked lady being fired must have spread by now, so seeing me in staff-only quarters would be confusing. But as long as the managers didn't find out, as long as they didn't tell _les gendarmes_...

"Nikki!" I looked up and saw Jeremy standing at the top of the stairs that led beneath the stage. He waved as I walked over and offered me his hand, which I took with a smile. "I was worried you wouldn't come!"

"You didn't tell the managers, did you?" I said as he led me down the stairs. He frowned as we reached the bottom and put his hand on my back to steer me ahead by a step.

"No. Should I have?"

"Absolutely not!" I cried, so sharp he let me go entirely. "I mean-"

"It's alright," Jeremy said over the noise of clanking chains and shouts of the other men. He stepped over some lengths of timber and took my hand to help me through the rest of the maze towards a ghostly white figure.

"Nikki," he said, catching the harness of a huge, grey horse. It flicked its massive head, stamping a heavy foot and sending plooms of dust into the air. My breath caught. I fumbled with my gloves. Why horses? They were alright when they were small or attached to a carriage that would get me away from the police, but this was virtually a giant, an unrestrained, sixteen hands giant who was staring at me a little bit too directly. "This is Nevel!"

When I hung back and glanced at him, my hands balled at my side, Jeremy's face fell. He swallowed and reached to take my hand, uncurling my fingers with his and resting my palm against Nevel's neck. I let out a long breath and nodded, rubbing Nevel's neck with a new confidence.

 _I can do this. How hard can it be?_

Jeremy handed me the lead rope with a smile and went to fix a length of timber to the harness. I stepped back as the beast turned its attention to me and nosed my dress for a treat, his blinkers prodding at me through my dress. An old, tearing collar had been strapped across his back, nearly-frayed ropes threaded through the rings that adorned it and chains ran from those ropes to where Jeremy was attaching them to the sets. I smiled, hoping that would make me less tense, and rubbed Nevel's nose.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. Nevel sniffed my hair, but his ears pricked and he turned back to Jeremy with a whicker.

"Walk on," Jeremy called, clanking a scene into place and patting Nevel's hind quarters firmly. I drew a sharp breath as his huge hooves stepped towards my considerably smaller feet and jumped back. His head whipped up, every muscle in his powerful body tensed. I froze, gripping the rope with whitening knuckles.

"Easy boy," Jeremy cooed softly, still working to make sure the set was pulling right.

A plank on the other side of the room crashed to the ground, sending clouds of dust into the air. I gasped as the horse shook his head about, eyes rolling back in his skull. Jeremy moved like a flash, abandoning the ropes and grabbing the headcollar. "There, there! Why the fuss, Nev?"

Something dark flashed in my peripheral vision. I spun on my heel, heart pounding in my throat. Nevel snorted and skittered back, tugging Jeremy with him. I stared into the rafters, seeing nothing but shadows.

"Jeremy," I whispered, my throat dry and voice hoarse. "Did you see that?"

He glanced back at me, knitting his eyebrows together. "No." I almost breathed a sigh of relief. "What was it? Nikki, are you—"

Another length of timber crashed to the floor, just a few feet away. Nevel and I screamed in harmony. Jeremy cried out as the horse reared a little way off the ground, his large head swinging in sheer terror.

"Easy, Nevel!" he tried to call. But Nevel caught him around the face and he stumbled back into mounds of dust.

I gasped again, letting the lead rope go and backing away. A shadow swept over Jeremy's face for just a moment. Somewhere in the quarters, the others called out in confusion, others in panic.

Footsteps against floorboards came from all directions, loud and intrusive, making it impossible to pinpoint the source.

I fought for air as Nevel screamed and kicked up dust with violent lashes of his hind legs. A scream tore itself from my throat without my permission as I cowered against the ground, trying to protect Jeremy. A loud crack snapped nearby. Nevel whinnied again, dashing off into the dusty darkness, free of the ropes and chains.

The shadow retreated, the whip miliseconds behind it.

I dragged a breath and rolled over, propping myself up amid the dust.

"Jeremy!" I tapped at his cheek, leaving prints in the dust on his pale skin as older men gathered around for safety. I sat up and pulled him with me. His head lolled to the side against my shoulder.

"How incredibly annoying," a voice from all around me boomed, "that it must be you men to pay the price of your managers' disobedience."

The stagehands froze or quaked at the knees. I gripped Jeremy's hand and swallowed as the echoes made the wooden supports around us shake.

My heart hammered on. It wasn't Erik's violence that scared me, but how quickly it had come about. Not half an hour ago he'd been composing rather peacefully, stuck in his own little world. And now, it was as if Don Juan had come to conquer once more, Dartagnan for his revenge.

The voice turned into a laugh. Lumps of plaster and stone smashed against the floor in random places, making the horses squeal. That laugh only grew as the men screamed.

"Holy Mother of God!" someone screeched, dashing for the exit. He managed to worm his way between a fallen timber frame and a scene, scurrying for the door. Seeing his escape route, more followed at a run, dodging the cave-in of rubble. I shut my eyes tight.

There came a deafening howl of horror. The stampede came to a screeching halt. The scream turned to a gurgle. Little... less... nothing.

They screamed again, even louder than before. One or two fell to their knees and grabbed their rosary beads from around their necks, crying into them as they muttered the prayers taught to them in their childhood. Others ran in hysterical circles in the dimness of the department, still crying out for help from above as more beams began to clatter to the ground.

I held Jeremy close, rocking him back and forth as the rest of the horses kicked up a fuss. The laugh sounded again and Jeremy stirred. I spotted the thick, blue shape of a deep bruise forming on his forehead and winced.

"I warned you!" Erik called over the cacophony. "See now, my managers, what happens when you disobey the Phantom of the Opera!"

"Erik!" I called back, bracing myself as the floor continued to shake beneath my knees. "Erik, _please!_ Stop this madness! I mean it!"

Another man screamed for his life and sprinted down the passageway where Nevel had disappeared. The swish of a cape sent everyone into further hysterics and the footsteps running after the escapee were drowned out as they scouted out their own exits. Jeremy stirred again in my lap, his head lolling, eyes barely open.

"Jeremy!" I cried, patting his cheek desperately. "Jeremy, are you alright? You were hit on the head!"

"Nevel..." he muttered, before his eyes closed again. I gathered him into my arms, rocking him again with my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeats as if they were keeping me alive as well as him. They served as a good distraction when the screams from the second man who'd tried to run were cut short with a sharp snapping noise.

A nearby stagehand fainted dead away. Tears streamed down the faces of remaining men as they huddled together for safety a few feet away from Jeremy and me. Others gritted their teeth and tried to smash their way to freedom by one means or another.

I shifted Jeremy in my lap, looking for another way out. Erik wouldn't come after us if I disappeared with Jeremy, and staying wasn't safe for either of us. But as I scanned every nook and cranny, nothing jogged any memories of secret tunnels or doors.

"Is there any other man who wants to run?" Erik's voice returned. Horses screamed and kicked at each other, but no man dared move, not one inch. "Good. Let's review: Box Five has been sold far too many times for my liking, Christine Daae has not appeared in _any_ role I have ordered for her, and I am still without my salary. Gentlemen, this is not the way to please a Ghost! If tonight's performance goes ahead, be warned! You will be giving Faust in a haunted Opera!"

I buried my face in Jeremy's waistcoat and sniffed away my tears. _Don't cry, Nikki, never cry._

"Monsieur–!" someone tried to all, his voice broken with fear and sobs.

" _Silence_ _,_ I say!" The entire place shook with Erik's voice. My eyes rushed across the rafters, scanning here and there for the mask, the cape, anything!

There!

I had to squint, but it was definitely him. In the darkness, Erik caught my eye. He looked away once he noticed my glare and slipped back into the shadows.

"Phantom..." Jeremy murmured. His fingers curled around my wrist. I patted his cheeks again, but his eyes didn't open at all this time.

"You!" A man looked up as lamplight shone upon him like a spotlight, shaking at the knees with fear. A letter fluttered to the floor. "See that this is delivered to the managers within the hour. I would have sent Mademoiselle de La Chance, if it weren't for their insubordination in dismissing her; you can blame them for today's deaths. Tell them the Opera Ghost is becoming restlessly impatient with their schoolboy antics. Believe me, gentlemen, there will be worse to come if this disobedience continues."

"Nikki," Jeremy muttered, managing to open his eyes by a fraction. I sat him up in my lap and rested his head against my shoulder, hoping he wouldn't sense my fear.

No one heard the soft whoosh of a cape as Erik vanished. The place fell into complete silence once he stopped talking, just the sound of quiet sobs and shaking bodies filling the air.

I stood as best as I could and looped Jeremy's arm around my neck. He slouched against my shoulder, his feet dragging as I pulled him towards the workmen's stairs, praying Erik would have opened the passage by now.

Jeremy panted with the effort of staying awake, muttering my name over and over to himself and fumbling with my hair.

My foot caught something as we went. Jeremy sucked in a breath. I tugged him on before he had the chance to look down, knowing already what Erik had left at the bottom of the stairs to frighten the inevitable _gendarmes_.

There would be no need to go corpse-hunting now.


	18. Chapter 15 part 2

**This chapter was split into two just to keep it short enough to read. Therefore this 'half' is cute and short. But without the cute (unless you find this stuff attractive, in which case, each to his own I guess.)**

* * *

"You are in bigger trouble than ever before!" I snapped, marching right into Erik's dark bedroom. I'd left Jeremy in the hands of a very capable doctor in the nearby infirmary with the promise of checking in on him later. But for now, I was in the House, maskless, with fire streaking through my veins. "Even bigger than the time you set the bloody house on fire!"

He sat at the pianoforte, staring at a Mozart collection. "It wasn't supposed to go like that," he muttered, playing nervously with his gloves. "I didn't mean to kill anyone."

"You can't keep doing this, Erik!" I shouted, throwing a nearby penny-whistle at him. It hit his shoulder, but he sat still, barely even breathing. "You can't! You can't do such awful things! Erik, what could possess you to kill so horribly?"

My voice cracked as I yelled and another sting of tears pricked my eyes, accompanied by the sob I couldn't hold back any longer. Erik didn't move.

 _Don't cry, Nikki, never cry._

"It's not fair or right! Fine: Box Five and your salary need to be dealt with, but that doesn't mean you can kill people who have nothing to do with it!"He swallowed. "Christine-"

"-is a perfect example of how you manipulate and deceive people! "I am your Angel of Music," you said. "Follow me to my underground house!" That's _abduction,_ not to mention a horrible _lie!_ And the managers too! Twenty thousand francs a month? What were you _thinking,_ Erik?"

I wiped my cheeks fiercely, ignoring every sting and burn as the back of my wrist opened up several wounds.

"You killed two men today, Erik Destler. Two innocent men, who had families that relied on them to bring money home. Did you ever realise that children were going to go hungry because you couldn't see past your lust for power? There are children that will have to grow up without their fathers now; some won't even remember their voices or the way they laughed! _Children,_ Erik!"

He bit his lip, finally letting my eyes go in favour of looking at the piano and running a hand over the keys softly.

"You were a child once, remember?"

Erik pressed one of the higher keys, working his jaw forwards and back.

"I'm getting tired of this, Erik," I whispered, running a hand through my hair. "How will I ever be able to tell Jeremy about you now? First Joseph Buquet, then Antoinette tells me people have seen you walking about at midnight, and _then_ you turn around and kill another two. I can't protect you from _les gendarmes_ forever, you know I can't!"

He tensed at that and looked over his shoulder at me, his forehead creased into a deep frown. "Is it I who needs your protection, Nikki? Or you who needs mine? Let's not forget your _own_ little habits."

" _Erik!_ " I snarled. "I've warned you about cheeking me before! Let's not repeat that lesson, for your sakes."

"Erik is sorry," he muttered, slumping in his seat and resting his forehead in his gloved palms. "Erik never wanted to hurt his Kitty-"

"Save it," I said, struggling to keep the anger in my voice now as he hunched over like a tortured man. "You know you're in danger every minute of the day and if you continue to disregard my efforts, I shall leave you be next time something goes wrong. And there _will_ be a next time, won't there? If you keep seeing Christine."

"Leave her out of it," he muttered. "She's done nothing to you and all you've been in return is rude and dismal."

"Erik," I said, my voice sharp and deep. For all he was menacing, he tensed at the piano and rested a hand on the keys. "You _know_ you can't fend for yourself up there. I advise you to stay on my good side - you're hanging by a thread, and _you know it!_ \- or I shall hand you over to _les gendarmes_ without a second thought."

"Your good side?" he muttered. "Sometimes I wonder if you have an ounce of good left in you."

I balled my hand into a fist and moved towards him, but caught myself and stepped back again. I let the rush of anger out in a long breath and continued.

"This is what you will do: you will write apologies to the families of those men and leave them by my bedside for me to deliver. Then you will write to Jeremy in regret of causing him an injury."

When he didn't reply, I cleared my throat purposefully. "Erik."

"So be it," he breathed, standing from the piano and heading for his coffin. "I will take my rest now, but you will have your letters by morning."

"I'm glad you see sense," I said, seeing myself to the door. I paused and looked back at him for a moment. "And Erik? No more midnight lessons. You know I worry."

He muttered a snarky reply, but I pretended not to hear and closed the door behind me, stifling a scream of annoyance with my palms. He'd wormed his way into my heart again, the little devil, taken away all my resolve to scold him without mercy.

 _You know I worry._

I was _always_ worrying. Especially about Erik: the little boy I'd found cowering in the attic in Rouen, the child I'd taught to play the piano, the spritely young genius I'd considered my brother for so long. It seemed to me that his need to be guarded was still as strong as it had been twenty years ago and, once more, it fell to me to be responsible.

I raised my chin and went to sit on my bed, stroking the little monkey who had coiled himself up on my pillow.

 _Is it I who needs your protection, Nikki? Or you who needs mine?_

I rolled my eyes. His point was completely invalid: I was, after all, his senior. _I_ had raised _him,_ not the other way around.

I settled on the mattress, propped against the headboard, and spent the evening wondering how I would deal with Erik's 'habits'. But each time I came to the murders and began to count the various atrocities I'd heard in the rumours or Nadir's letters, my mind darted back to Jeremy and by ten o'clock I felt so guilty that I pulled my cloak on and headed up a passageway to the exit in the _Rue Scribe._

The rest of my night was spent at my dear friend's hospital bedside. Not long after, I fell asleep with his hand in mine, squeezing my glove gently, and a frown on my lips.


	19. Chapter 16 200 Kilos!

**The chandelier had crashed down upon the head of the wretched woman who had come to the Opera for the first time in her life, the one whom M. Richard had appointed to succeed Mme. Giry, the ghost's box-keeper, in her functions! She died on the spot and, the next morning, a newspaper appeared with this heading:**  
 _ **TWO HUNDRED KILOS ON THE HEAD OF A CONCIERGE!**_  
 **That was her sole epitaph!**

 **~Gaston Leroux, The Phantom of the Opera.**

* * *

"Messieurs," I said, stepping through the door into the managers' office. "You wanted to see me?"

"Mademoiselle," André murmured, standing and offering me his chair. I nodded and took it graciously. "Our apologies for summoning you so early in the morning."

I waved his comment away. "I'm always willing to serve my managers, irrespective of my current state of employment." Or the fact that it was half-past-seven and I had rather hoped to spend an hour more sleeping at Jeremy's bedside, before a messenger boy had knocked at the hospital door and called me to the Opera House.

André cleared his throat. "Richard?" he said, as if repeating himself. Monsieur Firmin looked up from a letter with a frown, broken from his trance as I was.

"Ah, mademoiselle," he said, an air of firmness in his voice. He set the letter down and lit his pipe with a nearby match. I tried not to breath in the smoke. "We have a lot to talk about."

He raised his gaze to me, his eyes darkened with lack of sleep and the near-obvious contempt at having me sat before him once more. I noticed copies of my two contracts laying haphazardly to one side of the cluttered desk, beneath the little gaslamp.

"Another letter?" I guessed, nodding at the one he'd just been reading. He groaned and flicked at an open envelope.

"This 'Opera Ghost' is going to drive us mad!"

"Do you still believe it's an employee?" I asked.

"Why? Do you have something to confess, mademoiselle?" André piped up, resting a hand on my shoulder. "We have interviewed every staff-member with utmost diligence over the past few days, and they all say the same thing: the ghost has been here for years and he isn't to be messed with."

"Wise words, Monsieur. In light of the other day, I mean."

"Which is why we called for you," Firmin said, handing me the letter. I recognised it with barely a glance and took it from him, almost reluctant to see what Erik had written. Over the past three days, I'd been delivering his apology notes to various families, and to Jeremy - he'd asked me to read it for him when I presented it, which I found odd because his head injury wasn't serious enough that he couldn't read. I'd done it anyways and he'd fallen silent by the end and had taken to staring at the wall. I'd assumed he felt guilty about missing his colleagues' funerals and not pressed into it.

The letter began rather abruptly and comprised mainly of a blunt list of requirements:

 _Managers,_  
 _You were warned._  
 _ **Forty thousand francs by the end of the week.**_  
 _ **Box Five at every**_ _ **performance.**_  
 _ **Mlle de**_ _ **La**_ _ **Chance to return to her post as a cleaner until further notice.**_  
 _ **Christine Daae as Marguerite in the upcoming Faust.**_  
 _ **Madame Giry**_ _ **as my box-attendant.**_  
 _Failure to comply will result in a grave travesty._  
 _Yours,_  
 _Opera Ghost._

"Are you going to do as he says?" I murmured, reading through the cursive again for any hidden messages, which was pointless because there was nowhere to hide them. The managers exchanged a tired glance.

"You will return to your original post," Firmin sighed, leaning back in his chair and dragging a long breath from his pipe. "Box Five will be at your disposal, and we will come to a compromise with the ghost over this dirty money business."

 _Far too good to be true_ , I thought, not trusting his promises in the slightest.

"On one condition." There it was, as always. André moved behind Firmin, who sat straight at his desk again, set his pipe down and clasped his hands together, studying me. "We have interviewed every worker except you."

I drew back in my chair slightly. "I see. And what if I don't want to answer any questions?"

"Then we assume your guilt and fetch a policeman on suspicion that you've been involved in blackmail, terrorism and murder."

 _Ah._ I thought back to the iron grips of policemen's hands on my arms as I tried to flee Berlin and swallowed. "First question then?"

"What do you know about the Opera Ghost? Ever met or heard him?" Firmin said. I noticed André beginning to take notes and fixed my gaze on the wall just over Firmin's shoulder.

"As much as you do," I lied, shrugging. "I was aware of the rumours when I came to Paris a month and a half ago, but I imagined they were just silly stories made up to frighten children into bed at night."

"We were the same," André muttered. "And why, pray tell, do you wear a mask? Don't you think it a rather worrying coincidence that our ghost - our _murdering_ ghost - is said to wear something similar?"

Another shrug. "In my mother's country, people with any sort of physical or mental difference are not treated kindly. When I was fifteen, Messieurs, and working as a maid in Rouen, my mistress's house caught fire unexpectedly. I escaped with my life, but my face... well, you can imagine my horror when I found a mirror at last. I find life easier with the mask than without it."

"Of course, Mademoiselle," André muttered, making one last note. "Are you sure you've never seen the Opera Ghost?"

I hesitated. Erik and I had a backup story about my giving him bread as a child in case of emergency. But it was a last resort, and I was fairly sure I had this little 'interview' quite under control. "Never, Monsieur."

They spared each other a quick glance, then watched me in unison for a long moment. I wondered in that moment whether they were twins separated at birth, somehow reunited by the Opera. This House liked to do that with people.

"Very well, Mademoiselle," Firmin said, almost begrudgingly, as if he'd rather hoped to catch the culprit in me. "You're hired and dismissed from this interview. Box Five will be at your disposal this evening."

* * *

"I don't think this is wise..." Jeremy muttered as I handed my reservation papers to the new box attendant, who was not, as I'd expected, Madame Giry. He toyed with the buttons on his tailcoat, eyes sweeping the hall as if he expected to see the ghost at any moment. "Nikki, please, we can't sit in— "

"Don't be such a chicken," I said, my voice as dry as the one I'd tried to cook for Erik at Christmas one year. The box-attendant led us to the correct door and opened it with a rusty key, showing us in with a sweep of her hand and a smile. "We have the Ghost's permission!"

" _You_ have the ghost's permission," Jeremy mumbled, hardly daring to step over the threshold into Box Five. The box-attendant frowned at him as she held the door open.

"Monsieur, are you feeling quite well?" she asked, handing him her handkerchief. I turned away and let myself sink into the frontmost seat. Jeremy muttered a breathy reply, but he followed me all the same, walking with a nervous, stiff shuffle, and sat at my side. The attendant closed the door behind her.

" _Faust_ ," he muttered. "It was the first opera I ever did without Papa..."

He shuffled in his seat and worried at his lip. "It feels so wrong. I don't like sitting here, Nikki. It's like something awful is going to happen to you."

"Relax," I said as the lights dimmed and the crowd hushed. I found his tense hand and squeezed gently. "I'm telling you, Jeremy. Everything will be fine."

Indeed, everything was fine. Perfectly fine. Christine had been given the role of Siébel, not Marguerite, which she played with every ounce of her soul. Carlotta made a splendidly powerful Marguerite instead - this time without croaking, though Jeremy and I cringed in unison more than once. And all the while, he kept glancing around, looking for anything even slightly ghoulish. I pretended not to notice the way he rested his temple on his hand, disguising his fear of the lasso with fatigue.

All was well. Until Valentin's death in Act Four.

I'd seen _Faust_ before, many times. I knew the lyrics by heart, every scene and stage direction in all five acts. It was a feat I prided myself on.

But this performance was different.

Someone in the audience screamed. A loud crack echoed around the auditorium, followed by a chorus of terrified shouts and exclamations. The place erupted. The performance halted, the actors staring out at the audience. Even Valentin was awoken from death at the noise, frowning into the auditorium at the chaos.

The crowd parted, forming a wide circle around something draped over the seats. I stood from mine and peered over the box wall into the crowd below. My gaze locked. Jeremy gave a sharp cry and blessed himself in horror. The shape on the seats was not something one could mistake for anything else; a body was a body.

I stared in morbid fascination as two young men dashed forwards to attend to the woman. They pulled her off the seats to the aisle and ducked down beside her, blocking my view.

The screams hadn't died down and they rang through my ears without falter. But there was one voice louder than the whole audience combined.

 _"I see that my advice is not heeded,"_ that voice said, reverberating around the theatre.  
 _"And that Red Death triumphs._  
 _But if you want the door to open in front of you_  
 _You will certainly need the help of my voice!_  
 _You who pretend to sleep_  
 _Do you not hear,_  
 _O Christine, my love,_  
 _My voice and my footsteps?_  
 _Thus your Angel calls to you,_  
 _And your heart believes him!"_

"Very funny," I muttered to myself. I opened my mouth to call to the people below, but a hand snatched my arm, tugging me away from the ledge.

Jeremy pulled me towards the door at a sprint. I stumbled after him as he prised the mahogany frame open and dashed out into the corridor.

"Wait!" I cried. "Jeremy, for heaven's sakes, I'm in a _corset_!"

He kept running, out into the staff areas and down the hundreds of flights of stairs to the sleeping quarters.

"Where are you taking me?" I snapped at last, digging my heels into the floor. I screeched to a halt, stopping us both. "Jeremy!"

" _Silence,_ woman!" he shouted, turning back to me and shaking my arm as if he wanted to pull it right off. _"Pour l'amour de Dieu, Nikki, fermez ta bouche!"_

Ironically, my mouth hung open at that. It was in my moment of hesitation that Jeremy pulled me into his chest and picked me up in his arms like a husband carries his bride. Only I wasn't a bride. I regained my senses with a rush of anger and slapped his shoulder for his trouble.

"If you don't put me down this minute, I'll report you to the managers!"

He stopped short, mid-stride, and I nearly flew from his arms to the floor. I wriggled until he set me down and straightened out my dress and bustle. A nearby stagehand up ahead stared at us, his mouth and eyes wider than oranges. I stuck my tongue out at him.

"Haven't you ever seen a man sweep a woman off her feet? Go on! Have it!"

He swallowed and continued on his way down the passageway that crossed our path.

"Go to bed, Nikki," Jeremy said, taking the key from my neck and slipping it over my head. The lock gave a little click and the thin wood swung open to reveal my bedroom. "And lock the door. Don't come out of here, or unlock it for anyone, until I fetch you in the morning."

I scowled, standing my ground and crossing my arms. "I am not your wife! I have no responsibility to please you as you see fit, or do as you— "

"Nikita," he said, leaning down and clutching my upper arms. He looked into my eyes with every ounce of sincerity he could muster, his face mere inches from mine. I felt his breath on my mouth, his firm grip on my arms, and froze, staring into his emerald eyes, unable to breathe suddenly. "I'm not your husband, I know. I have no place to order you about. But for your own sakes, girl, go inside!"

When I scowled even harder and rooted myself to the spot, his eyes softened to desperation. "Nikki. Don't make me stay up all night fretting for your life."

"And where will you be during this seemingly apocalyptic evening?" I said, unfolding my arms and letting my posture relax, if only to make him stop gripping my arms so tightly. He paused and stood upright again, setting his jaw to one side as he thought and looked about.

He took his tailcoat off and spread it on the floor. "Here," he said, sitting down with his back against the wall and crossing his legs. When he seemed comfortable enough, he looked up at me. "I need to think."

Nadir had once compared Erik to a loyal hound, ready to die for his beloved master and kill all who opposed his good name. I'd chuckled at the time, picturing the teenager with the lopsided mask with whiskers and a long snout. But only now did I understand that metaphor.

Once more, Jeremy Desrosiers struck me speechless.

"Well... goodnight then. I suppose," I murmured, taking a step back into my room. He smiled and let his head rest back against the wall. I turned to head through the door, stopped only when he said one more thing:

"That poor woman who was thrown from the balcony was our box-attendant, wasn't she?"

"Yes," I whispered. A short pause. I slipped inside my room and locked my door as he'd asked.

* * *

Midnight. The clock in the square chimed the witching hour. I was still awake, so I slipped out of bed, my feet meeting the freezing flagstones instead of my carpet.

I shivered. Was Jeremy still outside? All he had was his thin formal wear. A rush of guilt made my heart clench in a painful knot.

I found the key on my dresser in the dark and pulled on a mask, fetching a blanket from my bed and a lantern and matches from the dresser, striking one carefully and lighting the wick. I blew the match out and dipped it in the flower vase, then picked the lantern and blanket up, heading for the door.

It unlocked with a soft click and the candlelight seeped into the hallway. A little snuffle caught my ears before the flame illuminated the shape leaning against the wall. I knelt by his side, setting the lantern down beside me. The orange hues lit his face with a soft glow: loose tousles of dark, curly hair, the crowns of his teeth just visible through a gap in his arched lips, the straight planes of his cheeks and light whiskers over his lip. And his eyes, softly closed, hiding those dazzling gems in sleep.

Before I knew what I was doing, I reached out and stroked his cheek with the backs of my fingers. He stirred and I snatched them back, but another little snore escaped his mouth and the pounding of my heart calmed again.

I spread the blanket over him, tucking it right up to his chin.

I untied my mask and let it lie by the lantern, studying him for a second. Then, leaning forwards, I rested my lips against his forehead in the lightest of kisses.

Satisfied that he wouldn't freeze to death, I hurried back to bed, diving under the covers, my face hot, like a naughty schoolgirl. That night, I dreamed of music and Jeremy, of a fantastical ballroom and an entire orchestra compelling us to dance like a group of Pied Pippers.

I knew it was a dream, because I wasn't wearing my mask and Jeremy was smiling.


	20. Chapter 17 In the Bois de Boulogne

The days that followed the death of Firmin's concierge are nothing but a haze now. I spent them cleaning the halls and statues, the staircases, the giant painting frames on the walls and whatever else I could find to keep myself busy and distracted; Erik had been slaving over _Don Juan_ night and day for weeks, taking breaks only once or twice. He'd stopped eating and sleeping altogether, which in turn made him snappy - the slightest thing seemed to set him off, and if it wasn't me, it was a problem with the score, so, on both occasions, he would throw a fit of anger.

Two of my Spanish vases had already been smashed within the past week and, not daring to risk any more of my fragile belongings being ruined, I'd stopped frequenting the fifth cellar.

Jeremy still took me out to breakfast as often as he could, but I think we both sensed the barrier that was beginning to grow between us as I worked my days away, because one morning he simply smiled and went on his way without a word.

I'd done it on purpose; put a barrier between us. With Erik in such a state, I couldn't afford any distractions, in case he tried to do something drastic. And that was what Jeremy was: a distraction, one much more serious that cleaning the Opera House's finery. We hadn't spoken all that much since the night of _Faust_ , and though I always reminded myself that it wasn't fair to drag Jeremy into my problems - how could I taint him with my company when I'd done unspeakable things before and he was so pure and loyal? -, a lingering sense of loneliness always seemed to hang over me without him.

The days turned into weeks and those weeks into a month. I spent every one in a trance, lost in my own mind for hours on end as I worked. Some began to talk that I'd been possessed by the Opera Ghost and that he was controlling my mind, making me wander the halls like a spectre. If only they knew how true it was.

Due to our negligence, Ayesha had begun foraging for herself and César could barely stand anymore. I'd managed to remember to start feeding them, but it meant stealing from the stables and I wasn't sure how long it would be until they noticed the shortage of hay or the fact that their ratting cats were being forced to catch more than usual.

The first fall of snow came in early December, shocking me into remembering the upcoming Christmas cheer that would soon fill the Opera House. On my lunch breaks in the _Café de l'Opéra_ , I saw an abundance of couples, young and old, wandering through the streets of Paris together, hand in hand and dressed in warm clothes. Once I saw Christine and Raoul admiring some items in a window down the street, which reminded me of Erik and sunk my heart even lower. I'd gone to see what it was after they'd gone: a window of Venetian masks. The find did nothing to soothe me. Why did everyone seem so happy in love?

I wanted to dislike Jeremy - not hate him, but whatever was happening to me whenever I looked at him, thought of him, felt his hand on my arm or the small of my back... it had to stop. I wouldn't be a slave to the butterflies in my stomach. I, _I,_ was a woman capable of much more than a man's expectations. I lived life how I chose without a masculine figure to rule my life, and I liked it that way. Of course, the occasional stabbings did dampen the respectable feeling.

But still, I craved company, and I loathed myself when I realised one day that it was his company I wanted, not Erik's.

December 15th, 1881. After twenty-three days of nothing but work, light eating and disturbed sleep, I rubbed some more polish onto the hundredth statue - I'd lost count by now - and spread it about with the cloth, lost once more in a fantasy of a life beyond the Opera House walls. Beatrice worked just down the hall, humming some Jamaican tunes I assumed she learned from her mother.

"Nikki?"

I frowned, barely hearing the voice that penetrated my thoughts. But it came again, as if the owner had been repeating himself for a while now. A hand found my shoulder. Not fully out of my trance, I jumped.

"Put the cloth down," the man said, taking it from me and setting it into my bucket. I grimaced as he turned me to face him, met with the sharp light of the sun in my drooping eyes. "Oh, Nikki. What are you doing to yourself?"

"Go away," I muttered, taking my bucket back and making to resume my work. Jeremy sighed, but he didn't move.

"I've watched you, Nikki, watched you work yourself into a pit over the past three weeks. You're exhausted! I convinced the managers to give you the afternoon off, so let's go somewhere. We hardly ever go to breakfast anymore, and I don't quite know why."

"Leave me," I persisted, feeling my heart harden against his words. "I have work to do. Wages to earn."

"You've polished every known piece of art and cleaned every inch of these floors," he insisted, taking my arm again and tugging me gently from the statue of Hermes. When I pulled away with a grunt, he began to tap his foot at me and turned to Beatrice.

"Beg your pardon, Mademoiselle," he said, tipping his hat to her. "But would you help me, Mademoiselle? Help me tell Nikita that she's burning herself into the candle-holder?"

"He has a point, Kitty," she said, as I'd allowed her to call me by the name Erik had penned for me. "You can't go on like this. Take the afternoon off, dear."

I scowled at her, sticking my tongue out like a petulant little girl.

"You've already been excused," Jeremy said. "My dearest friend, you won't earn any more wages today, and I won't let you sign back in."

"You're both two-faced devils," I snapped, reaching once more for my bucket.

* * *

"See? It's not so bad, is it?"

The carriage jerked over a bump in the road, almost knocking me over in my seat. I scowled out of the window at the passing countryside, fixing my bonnet with violent tugs.

"It's terrible," I muttered, though, despite my resolve, my words were deflated and powerless. Jeremy smiled across at me, sensing his victory, and glanced at the scenery. He knocked on the panels behind him.

"Stop here, Monsieur!" he called, and the carriage came to a slow halt, the horse snorting at the head. Jeremy opened the door and hopped out, closing it once I was down. He handed the driver ten francs and assured him we'd meet him in the nearby village in two hours.

The horse pawed the ground, eager to move again, and with a crack of the whip, the carriage jolted into action once more. Jeremy and I stood by the edge of the forest road, worn away by so many feet, hooves and wheels, watching it disappear around the next corner.

"Shall we go?" Jeremy asked, offering me his arm.

"Go where?" I replied, liking how cold I sounded. "Is this a plan to murder me and bury my body amongst the trees of the Bois de Boulogne?"

"If I'd wanted to murder you," Jeremy said, "I'd have shot myself first, then you. Now, I know a little bridge that crosses a very scenic stream somewhere around here, and while we talk there, we can eat our sandwiches. Are you coming or not, Mademoiselle?"

I snorted, hoping it wasn't too heavily faked, and took his arm.

We trekked through the paths and occasionally off-road, where my gown caught in the odd briar. I complained loudly, but Jeremy simply stooped and pulled me free with a smile, despite the scratches the thorns gave his fingers. When one drew blood from his thumb, I buttoned my mouth in guilt and let him lead me in silence, squeezing my hand every so often as we changed direction.

"Will you be attending the Christmas celebrations?" he asked after a minute, leading me through the rough ground to a flatter part.

"It wasn't on the top of my reservations list," I replied, leaning on his hand to step over a fallen tree branch.

"Well... I'd like it if you came with me." I stopped moving, looking at him quizzically. Jeremy blushed and walked on. "I won't see you in the morning because I'm going to Mass. I just thought it would be a nice way to spend the evening."

I smiled and opened my mouth to reply. _Yes, of course!_ I wanted to say. But how could I? Leave Erik alone on the one Christmas I was here? I'd already been much too selfish over the past month and a half.

"I think I'm busy that day."

"How can you be busy on Christmas Day?" he frowned, walking at my side. By now, we'd come to a little wooden bridge, arched in the middle, that stretched over a little river ditch. The sound of trickling water echoed amongst the rustling trees, mixing with our soft footfalls and the crunching of dead leaves beneath our shoes.

 _Because I have to stay with the Phantom of the Opera. You know, the same one that killed your father and fiancée?_

"I had rather hoped to visit my friend Erik," I said instead. Jeremy didn't look convinced.

A sharp rush of wind cut through my shawl and travelling dress, making my bones rattle with shivers. I bit my lip to stop my teeth chattering, but in vain.

"Cold?" Jeremy smiled, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. I made a noise in the back of my throat, neither affirmative nor negative in reply.

Our steps synchronised as we strode to the bridge, each crunch of leaves in company with the other. We stepped onto the wooden frame, stopping once we reached the halfway point. Jeremy took his arm away to lean on the top beam, gazing out at the river and woodland. I blamed the next rush of cold on the wind, though the trees barely moved now.

"Father used to take me here every Sunday, after Mass," he said, an air of light reminiscence to his voice. "It was my favourite place to be. I always wanted to paint it, but you can't very well bring an easel and brushes into church, can you? I come here to do just that whenever I can nowadays."

He looked over his shoulder and reached out a hand for me to take, which I did, letting him bring me to his side and smooth my loose hair down. "Do you have a special place, Nikki? Where do you call 'home'?"

I shrugged, trying to warm myself as much as think of an answer. "With my travels, I never usually stay in one place for too long. I have liked some places and loved others, but home is always where my hat lies at the end of the day. That being said, I have a particular fondness for Rouen. It's where I want to end my days."

"It must be a difficult living," Jeremy remarked. His face had fallen somewhat, but his voice remained just as chipper. "Moving all the time, I mean. Don't you ever wish you could... settle? Perhaps fall in love, or own a house? Maybe a house with a dog sleeping by the table and some children playing quietly on the floor in front of the fire?"

"How dull it must be to live the same life as every other Parisian," I scoffed. "I have seen the Tajh Mahal, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, the Colosseum and the Trevvi Fountain, to name just a few! How many other women my age have known what I have? All they've seen is their husband's dinner boiling away in a pot! No, it's better to travel and see miracles of architecture and culture than to stay in one place and experience only the dry realities of everyday life."

With a new smile, Jeremy raised his hands and tipped his hat. "You seem to have won this argument, Mademoiselle, for now. Please, tell me more about your travels.c

* * *

"Erik?" I opened the kitchen door with a slow creak, peering inside; Erik was nowhere to be found in the rest of the House and this was my last chance to catch him. Jeremy had taken me home after our two hours on the bridge and walked me back to my bedroom. Only once I was alone had I changed my clothes and mask and headed down the passageway to the House.

My suspicions were correct. He was indeed in here. But not, as I'd thought, alone.

Erik's gaze snapped to meet mine from where he was standing by the worktop, arms folded over his chest. Christine Daae stared back at me from the table in the centre of the room, her eyes rimmed with kohl and the redness of tears.

I closed the door behind me. "Did I interrupt something?"

"Yes," Erik replied, standing upright and letting his hands fall to his sides. "I was just telling Christine how her performance as Siébel in _Faust_ the other week could have been much improved if she hadn't been so frightened throughout the entire opera."

Christine's tearful eyes said otherwise.

I sucked in a deep breath, going through my options one by one. I could be forceful and take Christine right back to the Top, which would mean infuriating Erik and risking a fight over her - though something within me assured me that could never come to pass; Erik had never dared to lay a savage hand on me, and he wouldn't start now, not even over Christine. My other option-

"How have you been, Chrissy?" I asked, taking the seat opposite her.

"Very well," she whispered, her eyes glued to the table.

"I trust you like my little kitchen? And the library, perhaps?"

"Very much so." She raised her eyes to me. _Help me._

"Did Erik bring you down here?" I glanced at the frowning Phantom, whose glare was trained on me, and flitted my eyes back to Christine. She shook her head.

"I came of my own accord for my lesson. We were going to have a break and a cup of tea, but..."

"But Erik got distracted again?" I threw in a chuckle and quirked my hand through the air. "He always manages that. He'll be doing something completely unrelated, or be halfway through a conversation, then dash off to do something else or change the topic entirely! Don't you, Erik?"

"Nikki," he grumbled, pacing over to stand behind Christine. "I'm sure you, being women, are enjoying this little chat, but Christine and I have lessons now."

"Oh, I'm sure," I retaliated, my voice cold and pointed. I met his eyes with a steely determination. "But Christine promised me the other day that she'd go to town with me for our masquerade gowns and-"

"Actually, Nikki," Christine said, rising from her seat until she stood at Erik's shoulder height. "I must stay here. Erik is teaching me very well. But we will go for those dresses on Saturday."

"Christine-" I tried, as Erik took her hand with the gentleness of a butterfly and led her to the door. She threw a sad smile over her shoulder at me and disappeared after her Angel. _Thank you for trying._

I sank back into my seat in a stunned horror. She'd refused my help. She'd decided to stay down here with the man that had killed her colleagues. I let my head hang into my palm and a heavy sigh to escape my mouth. That girl was going to get us all killed, and sooner rather than later.


	21. Ch 18 You Shall Never See Nikki's Face

**Happy New Year, everyone!**

* * *

Christine Daae had not been seen in three days. Some said she'd been kidnapped by the Opera Ghost, who was rumoured to have been her voice tutor. Others insisted she'd taken leave and was staying with Monsieur le Vicomte de Changy and his older brother, a story with equal scandal.

I kept my mouth shut for a while, hoping the stories would die down with time. But as the days went past and the fair maiden was still nowhere to be seen, they only grew.

By the third day, even Beatrice had involved herself in the Opera Ghost story. Dares of going to seek him out were being thrown all over the place. Jeremy and I had scoffed at them over breakfast yesterday, yet I felt as if we both knew the same thing, a silent, shared knowledge of how dangerous the Opera House was becoming. We both knew what would happen if someone went Down Below for a dare, but never shared a word of the consequences.

Now, as I swept some dust from the bannister of the Grand Escalier, the feeling of dread that had haunted me for the past three days only grew with every whisper of the Ghost and Christine Daae.

"Well, well, well. Bonjour, Mam'zelle."

I looked up at Guillaume and the troop of stagehands flocked behind him at the bottom in the foyer. He rocked uneasily on his feet, his eyes deeply bloodshot. Swallowing, I gathered my equipment and hurried down, trying to push my way through the posse, eyes fixed on the exit.

I'd dealt with people like this before, but if I pulled my usual tricks, Jeremy would never talk to me again. There would be no murder if I could help it; I had too much to lose.

Guillaume caught my arm with a leering smile. I stumbled and dropped the bucket. The other stagehands exchanged devious snickers, nudging each other in anticipation. I glared at him and fought my way free from his grip. Someone else caught me, and I shrieked as a hand went where it shouldn't have. The man earned a slap and reeled back.

"Now, now," a third coaxed, his voice like honey laced with poison.

"Cat's got claws," another laughed.

"A little more than you think," the second muttered, taking his hand away from a bloody scratch on his face. I bit down a surge of triumph and glared at all the others.

"I beg your pardons, Messieurs, but I have other work to attend to. Good—"

Guillaume caught my shoulder and pulled me back as I tried to flounce off. I slapped him like the second stagehand, but he wasn't fazed and only smirked further.

That was when I began to panic and wrestled with every bit of strength I had. My hand reached for the knife I kept in my dress, but it grabbed about in vain.

 _I left it in my bedside cupboard last Monday._

Guillaume let out a bark of laughter. My lungs filled with the stench of alcohol. I coughed, distracted for just a moment. It was a moment he used to pass me to one of the others. Before I knew it, I was the ball in a sick sport they'd invented. I screamed and Guillaume caught me again. My world spun before my eyes in every direction.

"Let's see Kitty Cat's face then," he grinned, and his hand slipped beneath my mask.

I swore a filthy curse and twisted about, trying to shake him off as his fingers worked the porcelain up. I threw my head back, trying to bash his nose, but he dodged, earning whoops of laughter from the stagehands as if I were a mustang in need of breaking in. My heart thudded in my ears like a drum. I screwed my eyes closed and tried to prise his hand away from my face.

The untidy knot beneath my curls of hair came loose. The mask slipped over and off my head entirely. Cold air hit my face like a cricket bat. I opened my eyes again in panic, slapping a hand over my skin, a fraction of a second too late. Between my fingers, I dared to watch their reactions.

Guillaume paled. His eyes widened. He screamed, higher than Carlotta ever could, and shoved me away, dropping my mask to the floor.

A loud smash echoed through my ears and for one, painful moment, my heart stopped, and everything was quiet.

The man who'd been unfortunate enough to catch me stumbled away, paler than snow. He tossed me to another, who prised my hands away, took one look and screeched, throwing me to the floor.

I looked across at the mess of porcelain in horror.

 _No... NO!_

I reached for the pieces. The remaining stagehands backed away, tripping over their feet and clasping each other. One was violently sick all over the marble floor. Another rushed up the stairs, running for his life. He tripped halfway and lay like a dead crab sprawled across the steps, unmoving, the alcohol making it all worse. The one I'd slapped and cut the cheek of fainted dead away.

Tears pricked my eyes, stinging my nose and trickling down my ruined cheeks. With one hand I undid my bun and wrapped my messy hair around my face, covering as much as I could and letting it soak up my tears as they turned to sobs. With the other, I cradled the shattered pieces of my mask to my chest, unable to do anything but scream and sob as memories I'd tucked safely away assaulted my mind's eye once more.

Somewhere, a gunshot rang. The echoes turned into shouts, either my own or—

"What is going on here?" someone else cried. A hand pushed Guillaume away and the rest of the figure ducked down beside me. "Nikki! Nikki, are you alright?"

His hand rested on my shoulder. I pushed it away, abandoning the broken mask to crawl along the floor, my hair still pressed tight against my face.

"Guillaume! For God's sakes, what have you _done_?"

I just about dared to look up at Jeremy. Some hair slipped from my fingers. I fought to press it back, leaving just one eye uncovered. In my haste, other parts exposed themselves. Jeremy froze. I turned away again, fresh sobs racking my body.

"Come," he said, yanking his cloak off and draping it over my shoulders. The shattered fragments fell back to the floor as I tugged the hood over my face, doing my best to stand when he pulled me up and led me into the halls by the arm at a fast walk.

"My mask..." I cried, ducking my face into the shadows as a torrent of tears washed down my cheeks. Jeremy pulled me closer to his side and hurried on towards my bedroom. Other servants shouted and swore at us when we nearly slammed into them, but their words merely brushed over my ears in a tangled mess of heartbeats and memories. Occasionally I would slip back into the prison of my mind, unsure of what was past and what was present. I'd try to stop running and hide in the shadows from the flocks of _gendarmes_ , but then Jeremy would tug me on and I'd be back in 1881.

He pulled the key to my room from my pinny pocket — I was shaking too much to do anything but run and grip the cloak — and forced the door open. I grabbed the key and jumped over the threshold. Jeremy put a foot forwards to follow, but I slammed the door, locked it and rushed to throw myself on the bed to cry. The cloak slipped off as I fought my mind, and I cuddled it to my chest, sobbing into the material that smelled so heavily of my dear Jeremy and of fresh paint.

Oh, men are all so inquisitive! It wasn't enough just to hear me, was it? They simply had to see me too! Didn't Guillaume realise I'd killed men who'd seen me _sans masque?_

I'd learned to ignore the looks and comments when I wore the mask in public, learned to dodge police and stay two or three steps ahead of them in every city, but that was a Nikki who was wearing her mask in the first place. Without it, I might as well have been a naked whore on the roadside.

I glanced up, searching for anything I could use to comfort myself, a poetry book or something. Big mistake.

The mirror over the bedside reflected the sight that always caused about as much trouble as Erik did on a monthly basis. I winced and pushed my face back into the cloak, rocking back and forth on the creaky mattress. I glanced at the angel, who gazed up to Heaven, his face beautifully sculpted, without a trace of imperfection, and threw a nearby hair comb at him. A surge of guilt; was it a mortal sin to disgrace statues of holy beings?

I was going to hell anyhow.

I flopped back against the headboard to cry and sulk.

* * *

Two hours later, someone knocked on the door. I set my poetry book down and glanced in the vanity table mirror, where I was sitting, at my spare, black mask. I'd found it when I was rummaging through my cupboard for another one, finding both it and two admission tickets to the New Year's Masquerade on the bookshelf ten minutes later.

"Nikki?" a voice said. Another two knocks. "I know you're in there."

"Go away," I replied, clearing my throat when my voice cracked. "I mean it."

"You can't go forever without eating, Nikki."

I rolled my eyes and stood from the little vanity table stool, eyeing the door nervously. "Try me."

"I brought you a cream bun."

Damn it.

I opened the door, just by an inch, peering out at Jeremy. He smiled back and waved the bun in front of my eyes. My stomach growled and I reached for it.

"Ah-ah-ah!" he said, holding it up out of reach and shaking a finger at me. "Let me in first."

I glared, but stepped back and opened the door wider for him. He strolled in, not losing that smile, and I closed the door again with a rough bang, snatching the cream bun from him and biting into it.

"Madame Fournier says 'Get well soon, darling!'" he said, sinking onto the stool and stroking the leather of my poetry book.

"Why?" I frowned, accidentally spewing crumbs from my stuffed mouth. He chuckled and tossed me a handkerchief.

"I told her you were feeling unwell. She made that especially for you. Extra cream to make you feel a bit better."

I popped the final bite into my mouth, chewing happily. Jeremy scanned the room. His eyes brightened at the hair comb on the angel's pedestal.

"I have an idea: if you sit here, I can brush your hair for you!" He jumped up and went to fetch the comb, taking my arm on the return and leading me back to the stool. I smiled at his reflection in the mirror as he set the teeth to the bottom strands and brushed through several tangles with the utmost care, making sure to avoid my mask tie.

The clock on the wall ticked on. Five minutes passed, then ten. It was nearing thirteen when Jeremy spoke again.

"Nikki, why was Guillaume being such a pest?"

I shrugged. "Drunk, I suppose."

He sighed, blowing a long breath through his mouth. "I really must start rationing his whisky supply. He tends to make ridiculous bets with the others when they all drink together."

"He bet on the wrong horse," I muttered, bookmarking my page in my book and setting it down. I turned in my seat to face him and he stopped brushing. "Promise me one thing, Jeremy, and I will never ask another favour of you ever again: you must never take my mask off, whether I'm awake or sleeping, or drunk or sober. You shall never see my face. This condition is inviolable and, as long as you keep it, I will always be your friend."

He paused for a moment, finding my eyes in the shadows of my dark mask. I held his gaze.

Then, at last: "I promise, Nikki."

I breathed a long sigh, turned again, and flopped back against his abdomen, resting my head on his dirty shirt. "Thank you, Jeremy. Thank you."

"Anytime," he whispered, combing through my hair with his fingers and playing with a few tresses. As he went back to combing my hair in silence, I watched the concentration in his eyes grow by the minute.

The touches of his hands through my hair, guiding the comb, settled my heart as it had never been settled before, and, as I watched his reflection, I was suddenly aware of his every feature - the straight planes of his cheeks, the elegant curve of his lips and the stubble over them that so badly needed shaving, the way his hair set off the sparkles in his eyes and the crooked set of his nose from where he might once have broken it as a child - and the way he seemed so comfortable as he brushed it through.

Occasionally, he'd hum part of a libretto I knew, and I would continue when he stopped.

Sometimes I found myself gazing at the way his lips moved when he murmured the lyrics to those compositions, forming each word as though it were a delicate piece of glass. And when his dark curls fell over his eyes as he concentrated, my heart skipped through its own beats like the Little Giry so often did with her ribbon.

In the silence of the next half an hour, something within me turned on its head, changed so drastically I couldn't believe I hadn't seen him in such a way before. In spite of myself, of the day I'd had, of Erik's tempers and Christine's fear, I smiled. And when Jeremy met my eyes in the mirror, he smiled back.


	22. Chapter 19 Where We Shall Love

**Yes, this chapter is quite long. Do I have any regrets? No. You'll see why at the end. I know this is being posted a bit after Christmas, but hopefully it's not too far from the festive season to be completely out of place.**

 **"Any cruelty I show tonight I learned from you, my dear, on the roof of the Opera. Oh, yes, I heard it all—** **everything... that boy has a very penetrating voice, you know. Of course, you can't help loving him, I know that, none of us can choose where we shall love. I'm perfectly willing to be reasonable and accept that it's all his fault. Yes, it's him I blame... and it's him I'm going to punish when he comes here to take you back."**

 **~ Erik**

 **Susan Kay, PHANTOM: The Story of His Life.**

* * *

"You've been here for seventy-two hours," Erik grumbled, folding his arms as he leaned against the doorframe to my bedroom in the Lair, "and you are beginning to annoy me."

"Merry Christmas Eve to you too," I sighed, setting my sewing down and pulling my mask on. "Were you once sent a death threat for knocking? Or are you just rude?"

He scoffed a laugh. "We can't _all_ be a Desrosiers man. Any progress with that dress?"

I looked down at the heap of fabric and let my hands fall into it. "Hardly. You know I'm useless when it comes to dressmaking! And Christine couldn't go shopping with me, she said she's too busy with Madame Valerius."

I looked back at the garment, hoping he wouldn't see through my lie; she'd made me promise not to tell Erik that she would be out for a carriage ride with the Vicomte again.

"Is that so?" He paced over, holding a folder stuffed to the point of splitting the leather seams and sat on the end of the bed, regarding the heaps of fabric with a curious eye. "Your Red Rose never offered to take you?"

When I squinted at him and canted my head, he rolled his eyes and huffed a chuckle. "Desrosiers, you glock."

"Haven't seen him."

"That's because you've cooped yourself up in here for three days. I was Up Top earlier; you've driven him mad, you really have! He's supposed to take you to the Christmas dinner tomorrow and there's neither head nor tail of you!"

"But my dress— "

He held up a hand and eased himself from the bed, careful not to drop the hundreds of sewing needles I'd left on the sheets - I'd been sleeping on the divan at night, much to Ayesha's annoyance.

"Don't start; a basket of oranges like you doesn't _need_ a fancy dress," he sighed, leafing through my intricate designs.

I rolled my eyes. _Basket of oranges, my foot._

He left the folder on the bed and walked to the armoire in the corner of the room, procuring a key from his pocket. I watched in defeat as he unlocked the door and drew something from inside, turning back to me with the fabric draped over his arms. _"This_ is what you will wear."

* * *

To put it mildly, Christmas dinner the next evening was a lavish affair. In one of the larger rooms out of the public eye, adorned in the golden light of hundreds of candles burning away in their candelabras, a long table set with shining silverware, fruit, meat and a large variety of wine, all upon a vast white tablecloth that draped over the sides, entertained a mass of opera staff and patrons. It was an affair for all, but decorum tonight was stricter than ever. I would need to be on my best, ladylike behaviour.

I opened the door to that room at eight o'clock on Christmas Night flanked by Christine and Beatrice in their finery. Even with my mask on, the heat from that room hit me like a speeding carriage and the noise was enough to wake the dead.

I just hoped Erik would lie low for the evening.

I stepped inside, biting my lip and fiddling with my fan, looking for someone I knew and wouldn't need to be introduced to.

"There's Raoul," Beatrice giggled to Christine, catching her by the shoulder and pointing subtly across the room to where the Viscount and Count de Changy were standing by the Christmas tree, speaking with the managers and sipping fine red wine. Christine went about the same colour as Raoul's drink and started to fiddle with the ring on a chain around her neck. The Count spared a glance in our direction and, seeing Christine, caught his brother's arm and nodded at us. Beatrice clutched Christine a little tighter. "Oh Christine, won't you introduce me to the Count?"

My heart sank, but I didn't complain as Christine agreed quietly and led us over. The Count's eyes followed us, though he pretended not to watch so intently. Or rather, they followed Beatrice.

"Messieurs de Chagny," Christine said with a small curtsey. Raoul took her hand, kissing her glove sweetly. "May I introduce Mademoiselle Beatrice Rousseau-" Beatrice curtsied here with a shy smile to the Count "-and Mademoiselle Nikita de La Chance."

I, however, stood there like a stupid mare. Over Raoul's shoulder, I had spotted the flitting sight of emerald eyes as they disappeared into the crowd. I stared, trying to pick them out again, going up on my tiptoes even to see over the Vicomte's shoulder.

"Nikki," Christine said amid the throng of voices. I shook myself back to reality.

"Excuse me, messieurs," I muttered, bobbing slightly. "But there's someone I must see."

Firmin muttered something to André, but I didn't care to know what. I pushed my way through the crowd, excusing myself every two seconds until I reached the dinner table, where finger food was currently the only option that wasn't off limits. I looked around in dismay. I was sure I'd seen Jeremy head in this direction. I could have _sworn_ it!

"Evening, Mam'zelle."

I closed my eyes, feeling my heart sink. _Not Guillaume, anyone but—_

I turned. It was indeed Guillaume, grinning a yellow, toothy smile, though he'd smartened up for the dinner by cutting his dark beard down and pressing his good trousers. Still, my heart hardened at the sight of him and I kept my distance. "Monsieur du Moitiers."

He smiled on, shuffling about slightly on his feet; clearly he'd already had a bit of that wine, but at least it had put him in a good mood this time. He gestured to the other end of the table. "He's over there, Mam'zelle."

I followed his point, and the breath was all but knocked from my body.

Jeremy, with a glass of wine in one hand and an old, tarnished pocketwatch in the other, was waiting in line for the cheese platters on the end of the table. I barely recognised him at first.

His hair had been combed back and cut shorter, and he'd shaved his scraggly moustache and beard entirely. Gone were the scruffy work clothes of a stagehand; now he wore his best, and only, dark suit, coupled with a ruffled necktie and a pair of newly polished boots. He looked up as Guillaume called to him and, like some force of attraction between magnets, our eyes met.

I blinked. It was all I could do.

Jeremy's smile when he caught me staring lit the room brighter than the hundreds of candles ever could, even if they burned all night. He left his place in the line, much to the delight of the gentleman behind him, and strode over to us, pocketing his watch as he walked. Against my will, I found my eyes trailing up and down his attire, stopping at the same place each time. I scolded myself ruthlessly for noticing how sweet his lips looked when he smiled, quite prepared to kick myself back to my senses as he approached.

"Mademoiselle," he smiled, taking my hand and bowing to kiss it. He looked back up at Guillaume and smiled reluctantly. "My friend, if I may—"

Guillaume waved with request away with a knowing grin and reached for Jeremy's wine glass.

"I know when I'm not wanted," he said, downing the contents and handing it back. Jeremy glanced at it with a light frown, but smiled when Guillaume backed away with a series of comical bows.

"Thank you Guillaume," I said, clutching my fan and letting Jeremy's hand go. He grinned again and winked at Jeremy.

"Good evening, you two." The crowd swallowed him up. I caught Jeremy's gaze and flushed, a shy smile taking over my lips. A slight red tinge of his own came to his cheeks and he looked away, swirling the trace of remaining wine in the bottom of his glass. I scanned the crowd for Christine and Beatrice. Some part of me wanted to run back to them, leave the loud, hot room and hurry back to my bedroom. But with Jeremy here, I didn't feel half as nervous as when I'd entered.

"You came," he murmured, looking down at his feet.

"Of course," I said. My voice cracked and I cleared my throat. "Why wouldn't I?"

"I couldn't find you all weekend. Where were you?"

And just like that, the spell snapped. I drew away from him, my smile falling into a frown.

"I... well, I was..." Why was lying so difficult these days? I used to be so good at it! "I was visiting Erik. You know, my friend, whom I wanted to see at Christmas. But I decided to attend the dinner with you and went to visit him beforehand instead, and well, that's why I was gone for so long."

I smiled, hoping he'd be convinced. He smiled back, but it was such a lonely look I felt just as guilty as if I'd said _'I was with the Phantom'_. There was no winning to this, was there?

"You appear to be out of wine," I said, nodding at his empty glass in an attempt to shake the sudden shyness that had come over us both. His eyes wandered to it and he swirled the droplets again.

"I suppose I am." He cleared his throat and stood upright, though when he caught sight of my eyes again, he blushed and looked at the table.

"Would you like some?" he asked, fetching another glass and filling his own. I nodded and he poured the second, passing it to me with a steady hand. I murmured my thanks and took a sip, feeling the light burn as the drink seeped down my throat.

"And some cheese, perhaps? I was going to get some, but then I saw..." he trailed off, glancing at me again. I looked at my dress, wondering whether I'd spilled something on it and that was why he kept staring. It was a simple, white dress, probably one Erik had dug up from the old costume department or somewhere. He'd adjusted it for me last night, gathering up the sleeves and adding white lace in their place, refurbishing the bustle to my taste and adjusting the corset for a night of dancing. A very simple dress indeed, but with a very special touch.

"Saw what, exactly?"

He took another sip and drew a long breath. "I saw you."

My heart skipped a beat and my throat ran dry all of a sudden. I looked up to find him taking a rather long gulp of wine and fidgeted with my gloves.

"Do I look _that_ dreadful?" I said, trying to lighten the mood with humour and escape the nerves the evening had dealt me. Jeremy's eyes widened over the rim of his glass and he spluttered.

"That's not what I meant at all!" he cried, amid a fit of coughs. He grabbed his handkerchief and coughed into it. I took his wine before it could spill down that nice suit of his. "Not at all! That's _decidedly_ not what I meant!"

I frowned, handing him back his drink only when his shock had passed and he could hold it with the same, steady hand with which he'd poured it. "Then what _did_ you mean?"

He blushed again and raised his eyes to mine. Then, in a hushed voice so only I could hear: "You look very, very beautiful, Nikki."

In that moment, the crowd hushed, if only to my ears, and all I could concentrate on was the shy, green-eyed man before me, dressed in his very best suit. I looked into those eyes and smiled, a mixture of childish excitement and sweet comfort flooding my senses. I couldn't remember the last time someone had called me beautiful besides Erik, which was rich coming from him.

I was... light; it could just have been the wine, but I so wanted to believe otherwise. I wanted it to be Jeremy that made me so happy, Jeremy that made me completely weightless and soft inside. I but down a girlish grin as he set his unfinished wine aside and offered my his arm.

"And now that the awkward greetings can be concluded," he said, a new smile lighting up his eyes. "Mademoiselle, if your card is not piled high with eligible men more worthy of your attention than I, might I have the first dance?"

* * *

The evening passed in a blur of colour and wine. I spent it in Jeremy's arms, dancing to the sound of a little orchestra of opera musicians. For four hours, we laughed and whirled around the bright room, lost in the sea of other couples yet in a world of our own.

At five-to-midnight, worn out and flushed all over, I fanned myself down by the door, to which Christine had beckoned me when I'd left the dance space. Jeremy had gone to fetch me a glass of water, ignoring my requests for some more wine with a firm shake of his head.

"I swear I'm all danced out!" Beatrice giggled, flopping down beside Christine on the chair I'd saved for her after two gentlemen had given them up for us. She grabbed her fan and waved it before her face in wide arcs, panting like a dog. Christine sat straight in her seat, fanning herself with the dainty elegance of a queen. I couldn't help but smile at the side by side comparison. "I shall never walk again, you hear?"

"And did you dance with the Count de Changy?" I asked, catching Christine's eye with a knowing glint to my own. Beatrice beamed and she leant over to giggle to us in private.

"I must have stepped on his toes a hundred times, but he didn't complain, not once! And look! He gave me this!" She motioned to the new rose in her bodice and stifled a girlish squeal. "He is _such_ a gentleman!"

"Sorrelli is going to loathe you, Bea."

"Indeed," Christine said. "But we must acknowledge Nikki's evening too! Is Jeremy really such a good dancer, Kitty? Or was I simply _imagining_ him sweeping you along and capturing the envious eye of every lady in the room?"

I drew a sharp breath and scolded her lightly. "You do _exaggerate_ , Christine!"

But she glanced at Beatrice with a smirk and I felt my stomach turn. Beatrice regarded me with a devilish glint in her eye. "If you say so, Kitty."

Christine sat bolt upright all of a sudden, knocking Beatrice's wine so it spilled slightly on her dress. Beatrice gave a cry of horror, but Christine clutched my arm and shook me.

"Look!" she hissed, pointing across the room to where Jeremy was trying to balance a tray of glasses on one hand and push his way through the crowd with the other. "Sit up, Kitty, stop slouching! He's coming this way!"

I bit my lip as some water spilled over the rims of the glasses and onto the tray, and made to stand up. "Perhaps I should go and help-"

Christine, with her hand still on my arm, yanked me back down. "No!" she ordered, then realising her sharpness, said softly: "No. No, _Jeremy_ must come to _us_. He must stand right here!" And she pointed to the floor in front of the door.

"But why?" I said. The women glanced at each other, acknowledging a silent, shared secret between them.

"No reason," Beatrice said.

"It's not important," Christine added. Another glance, this time with a giggle. I shifted in my seat, crossing my hands this way and that and watching as Jeremy approached through the crowd. They were plotting, and I didn't like it. Perhaps Christine was more like Erik than she let on...

"Mesdemoiselles," he said when he stood before us, handing out the glasses of water, first to me, then Christine, then Beatrice and keeping the last one for himself. "I'd say they're fresh out of wine, but in actual fact, I think we've had more than enough for one night."

 _"Merci, Monsieur Desrosiers,"_ Christine smiled, standing from her seat and dragging Beatrice up with her. "How very kind of you. Forgive us if we don't stay to chat, but we are otherwise engaged now."

She showed him her dance card as proof, which was mostly filled with the initials _R.C,_ and _P.C_ was written in each and every column on Beatrice's. I silently cursed them for abandoning me yet again, but another look at Jeremy steadied my nerves.

Christine reached to Jeremy, but instead of letting him kiss her hand, she pushed him back towards the door. Beatrice shoved me along with him so we stood in impolite proximity and I cried out in shock.

"Bye," they said in perfect unison. Beatrice waved her fingers at me and winked before Christine grabbed her by the arm and dragged her away to the de Changy's.

Jeremy frowned after them. "Was it something I said?"

"No," I replied, pulling a coarse, white hair from his suit. "They've been acting like that ever since I came over!"

He watched them from across the room as the orchestra began the final piece before the midnight celebrations. "Excited to get their Christmas kisses, probably."

I pulled another hair from his jacket. "You're _definitely_ turning into a horse, Jer- _Oh!_ Oh, I'm sorry!"

He looked down in surprise. I'd twisted his lapel too far and now his entire coat was crumpled in an embarrassing nature. Biting my lip, I ran my hands over it, trying to smooth it all back into place. "Oh, Jeremy, I'm so sorry!"

He opened his mouth to speak, but the first strike of midnight beat him to it.

 _Bong!_ went the clock in the corner of the room, raising cheers from the dancers. _Bong!_

I froze, my hands still on Jeremy's tailcoat, and looked up at him with the slow turning of my head. His eyes wandered back to mine, almost hesitantly. We'd both, and neither of us could deny it, seen Christine fling her arms around Raoul's neck and launch herself into a deep kiss.

Jeremy cleared his throat, his gaze wandering upwards to the ceiling. I caught Beatrice's eye with a scowl. She simply raised a thumb and went back to kissing the queue of men waiting for her. I looked back at Jeremy, a cold sweat breaking out on my forehead. Would it be rude to kiss him? Or rude not to? I looked at his lips with a longing that had kept me awake at night for weeks and bit my own. Christine had her Raoul - and Erik - and Beatrice had the battalion of men waiting in line for her. Could I not have just one, chaste kiss from one person, my first in years?

"Oh, Nikki," Jeremy said, his eyes raised. "Look up for just a moment."

I squinted, my eyelashes catching the edge of my mask. "Is that..."

"Mistletoe," he finished, blushing again. "Someone must be playing a very mean trick."

I groaned, looking again at my friends as they held off more advancements and pretended not to watch us with keen eyes. "Those minxes, _that's_ what they were planning!"

"Nikki..." Jeremy whispered, catching my turned cheek with the gentleness I'd come to associate only with him. "Nikki, may I... may I-"

He was so close! Right there in front of me! I found that my hands had screwed his lapels into bunches and released them slightly.

"I- wait, Jeremy, please-"

"Oh, for Heaven's sakes, Kitty!"

I heard Beatrice a moment too late to react. A pair of hands landed on my back, just over my bustle, and shoved me forwards. I barely saw a mop of brunette curls over Jeremy's shoulder before he stumbled towards me, our bodies pressed neatly together.

"Bless me and keep me," he muttered to himself, and, before I could protest, his lips were on mine.

The bells played on. Christine and Beatrice clutched each other and stifled squeals, but I barely heard them. I barely heard any of it. Everything around me dulled, and, as I reached up and wrapped my arms around Jeremy's neck to pull myself closer, it was just us two in that room.

 _Bong!_ A cheer went up, along with a chorus of 'Merry Christmas!'s. Jeremy's kiss was nothing like anyone else's; it was sweet and gentle, moving with me and not at me. He lay his hand on the back of my head, pulling me close for just a few seconds more of that bliss.

And then, as quickly as it had started, it was over. We pulled away, finding reality once more, our hearts pounding in our ears. The sound came back. My eyes opened to find a crimson-faced Jeremy Desrosiers staring back, gaping and drawing sharper breaths than usual. I probably looked the exact same, and I shut my mouth, grateful for the mask which covered my flush.

The room swayed. Lightheaded, I caught Jeremy's jacket a little tighter.

"Nikki..." he whispered, leaning forward to plant his forehead on my masked one. I closed my eyes tight, but it didn't stop the tears dribbling out and beneath the golden porcelain.

It was Jeremy I wanted. _This_ was the man I wanted to kiss for the rest of my life, the one I wanted to hold and cherish through the good times and bad. For once, the thought didn't strike fear through me, and when he wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me into a tight embrace, everything I'd felt over the past two months was affirmed.

 _"None of us can choose where we shall love,"_ Nadir had once said when I'd found him crying for his wife. Only now did the real meaning of that saying hit home. I'd fallen in love in the place I'd never expected to with the man I'd never expected to, and despite my fears, it was the most amazing thing I'd felt in years. Even the dizzying heights of the Strasbourg Cathedral couldn't match the soaring inside me.

Christine took a five-franc coin from a begrudging Raoul and stuck her tongue out at him in triumph, much to the disgust of a passer-by.

That night, all I dreamt of was Jeremy and a fantasy of a house with a dog asleep by the table and some children playing quietly on the floor in front of the fire. Erik didn't even cross my mind.


	23. Chapter 20 Nothing to be Done

**"Now we know Erik is not a ghost, one can speak to him and force him to answer!"**

 **Christine shook her head. "No, no! There is nothing to be done with Erik except to run away!"**

 **~ Raoul and Christine.**

 **~ Gaston Leroux, The Phantom of the Opera.**

* * *

"Are those _my_ slippers?"

Erik frowned at his new footwear.

"I found them in the library," he said, returning to the cup of watery, milkless tea he was making. I huffed and closed the kitchen door behind me.

"Those are my best mink ones!" I cried. He grunted a nonchalant reply and I scowled. "I want them back by the end of the day!"

He leaned against the worktop and sighed. "Nikki?"

"Another thing!" I continued, flopping down at the table and untying my hair from its bun. "Christine and Beatrice are such children! They played the most cunning trick on Jeremy and me last night! You wouldn't mind giving them a bit of a fright, would you? Also, there's a wine shortage now, so if we're going to have a proper New Year's Masquerade, that's the first thing that needs—"

"Nikki."

I looked over at him from untangling my hair from a mask tie, setting the mask on the table. "Erik."

He didn't laugh, just turned around to face me, his horrible, maskless face twisted into what looked like a deep, tired frown. "Listen to me carefully. And promise not to fly into a rage."

My heart clenched. Nothing good could come of this now he'd said that, it never did. I folded my arms and watched him pensively.

He said nothing for a moment, just watched as I masked my nerves with nonchalance. Then he drew a deep breath, clenched his hands, leaned back against the worktop, and said:

" _Don Juan Triumphant_ is finished."

He might as well have slapped me.

My heart stopped, and for a moment I was worried it might never start again. I stared at his ugly face, searching for the joke, the lie, the trick he was trying to play. But Erik remained cold and sombre, holding my gaze with all the sincerity in the world.

My entire self seemed to shatter within me and I gripped the table in horror.

 _"No..."_ I muttered, standing from my chair, my nose stinging with tears. They gathered in my eyes, trickling down my cheeks before I could stop them. "Erik—"

"I know what you're going to say," he said, holding up a hand to silence me. I bit my lip and turned away, holding back a sob but sniffing all the same.

 _Don't cry, Nikita. Never cry._

"And nothing is going talk me out of our bargain. You knew it would only buy me a bit more time to come to my senses, which it didn't."

"You can't," I snapped, though it was quiet and broken in my voice as I hunched over the table. The sob broke through my throat and I gripped the cloth tighter. He couldn't... he _couldn't!_ I wouldn't let him! If I had to break my oath to save him, then damn it, I'd shatter it into a million pieces!

"Nikki—"

"No!" I shouted, pushing myself away from the table to face him. He stood only a few feet away, hand reached towards my shoulder as if he'd made to comfort me. My hands curled into iron fists and I slammed one onto the table with such force, the vibrations rushed through the floorboards beneath my feet. "You _can't,_ Erik! I won't let you keep that oath! What happened to _'Erik never keeps his word'_? _'Oaths are made to trap fools!'_ No, you never meant to keep it! _It doesn't count!_ "

He crossed his arms, a thundery glare settling over his fiery eyes and mangled skin. I was staring an angry Death in the face, but I glared back. Another sob shattered my throat.

Nadir and I had spent too long keeping him alive to let him die now.

"I was never going to change my mind, Nikki," he snarled. "You knew that. You're not being fair! I have a plan, but if you'd just listen—"

"Fair?" I cried, my vision blurred as a flood of tears washed my skin clean. " _Fair?_ _You're_ the one who's not being _fair,_ Erik Destler! I'll never forgive you for this!"

Erik gritted and ground at his jaw, his teeth razor sharp and bared. "You are the most evil woman I've ever met. Even worse than the Khanum of Persia! Worse than the gypsy women! Worse than my poor, unhappy mother!"

"What did you expect?" I shouted. "You expect me to take this on the _chin?_ "Oh, hello, I'm Erik, and I've written my opera, so now I'm going to go and kill myself! It isn't as if my best friends are going to be _utterly_ _heartbroken_ over this!" How _could_ you, Erik?"

"You'll have Jeremy."

But I wasn't listening to him anymore. I was caught in a whirlwind of thought, hunting for an answer in desperation.

"You'll just have to write another opera."

He recoiled, glaring at me with an intensity I hadn't thought possible. "Write another opera?"

"Yes!" I said. "What about... how about one where... the devil helps a man obtain a woman's love... in exchange for his soul?"

He regarded me with a stunned silence, his eyes burning into me. "That's _Faust_. And no. There will be no other opera."

That did it. Something inside me snapped. An eruption of volcanic anger exploded within me, flushing me red hot.

"Then I shall _burn your score_ into cinders and you shall have to _rewrite_ it!"

Silence.

The plates on the sideboard chimed. Erik stared at me, as if he couldn't quite believe I would betray him like this. Slowly but surely, the fire returned to his eyes. He tensed all over, baring his teeth at me once more. I sobbed again and wiped my cheeks furiously, though it stung and burned and my sleeve came away streaked with blood and a familiar, clear liquid.

Erik drew a hiss of a breath. My chair skidded across the floor towards me with a screech of wood on wood. I jumped clear with another cry.

"I've endured twenty-seven years of ridicule, torment and loathing!" he thundered, eyes sparking. "Do you know how many times I tried to end it all these past ten years? Each and every time, my oath to you kept me from strangling, drowning, lacerating myself! And now, when I'm finally free to put a stop to this merciless existence, you come along again with your cunning little bargains and damnable lies and you try to trick me into continuing this living hell!"

"And what about Christine? What will she think when she realises you've—"

Erik laughed, and when he laughed, hell itself cowered. The walls shook. I scurried to the furthest corner of the kitchen in terror, but he followed, stalking after me like a terrible skeleton, and stood over me, watching me with those fiery eyes and laughing mouth.

"Christine? The woman who betrayed me? Ah, my dear Kitty, _that_ is where my plan comes into play!"

"What plan?"

He caught me by the hair and I screamed again, flapping about in an attempt to hit him away. He lifted me from the ground, putting us at eye level with each other. I gasped, but instead of a lungful of damp air, I breathed the smell of death and choked.

"You shouldn't have interrupted me before, but I'm so glad you asked," he chuckled, his voice dangerously low and right in my ear. "Finishing _Don Juan_ doesn't just mean the end of Erik, oh no! What is the point of composing an opera just to never hear it?"

"Erik—!"

He put a boney finger over my lips, pressing them shut, and wiped the new tears from my cheeks with his long index finger. "I will be at the Masquerade to present my score, and then our deal will be complete. Once the premiere night is finished, you will never hear from your horrible monster ever again."

That was it. I saw the beginnings of insanity in his eyes as he set me down. How could someone not in his right mind logically decide to take his own life? I'd raised this man. I'd taught him to play and compose music, to read and write, to talk with eloquence and demeanour. I'd never taught him to be a madman.

He needed to come back to his senses. He needed to be reminded of reality. How could he think like this? He was as cruel as the stories made him out to be!

With this in mind, I raised a hand over his bare face, scowling at the Phantom, ready to beat him out of my Erik.

He caught my hand and the fury rushed back to his eyes.

A sharp _slap_ filled the room. A plate smashed to the floor, and so did I.

I gasped, clutching my stinging cheek. Erik clenched his hands into balls, just standing there staring at me. I looked over my shoulder at him.

"You horrid man!" I hissed, pushing myself up from the floor. My face stung as when it had been destroyed in Rouen, hissing and seething in the more serious parts. I clutched where he'd slapped and spared him one final glance. How dare he hit me? How _dare_ he?

"You wicked, _wicked_ creature!" I shouted, grabbing my mask from the table and sprinting out of the kitchen, down the hall into the parlour and up the stairs into my room. I locked the door behind me and, amid a new flood of tears, bolted for the passageway to my room Up Top.

* * *

 _I hate him! I hate him, I hate him, I hate him!_

It became a mantra as I sprinted up the endless flights of stairs, passing from darkness into light into darkness again when some burned-out torches no longer lit the path.

 _I hate him!_

I threw myself against the Angel of Music and shoved it aside. Racing into my bedroom, I grabbed my riding cloak from the little cloak rack and tied it on haphazardly. My money-purse lay quite limp and empty on the vanity table, but I grabbed it anyhow and tied it to my wrist.

My mask slipped from my face just a bit as I found the doorknob in my blindness of tears and threw the door open.

A shocked Jeremy took a step backwards. I froze on the threshold, just as alarmed to see him as he was me.

"Jeremy—"

He threw his arms around my waist, pulling me into a tight embrace. I gasped, my hands reaching involuntarily to the sides.

"I've just this hour realised," he whispered, his voice full of excitable, childish glee, "that I am in love, the most wonderful love, with you!"

I froze again, stuck in his arms and unable to move. If my heart wasn't hammering enough, I felt sure now that it would leap right out of my chest. "Jeremy, please—"

"I know, I know, it's all very fast," he continued, stepping back to look down at me. "But Nikki, I had to come here right away or I'd lose all my resolve to... to tell you... Nikki? Are you alright?"

I tried to turn away, but he caught me by the chin and looked into my teary eyes. He looked beyond my mask, and I felt so dirty that I pushed myself away.

"You've been crying," he whispered, eyes big and hurt. He reached towards my mask tentatively but I caught his hand.

"Very well done, sir!" I spluttered, trying to clear my throat, push my hair up properly and sound harsh all at the same time. He didn't speak for a few moments and the only sound in that dark, lonely hallway was that of my sniffing as I forced composure on myself and pretended to fix my cloak.

"Who made you cry?" he whispered at last. His hand slipped into mine. I let it stay there for a moment, drawing and exhaling a deep, ragged breath.

"No one," I whispered. "I just... Do you know where Madame Giry is?"

Jeremy caught my hand tighter and brought me to the formidable woman's dressing room. After three raps on the door, it opened to reveal a very tired looking Giry in her dress clothes and gown, her hair pulled up into a nightcap as if she'd been resting. I didn't fail to notice the letter she was clutching.

"Madame?"

"Monsieur Desrosiers, how can I—"

"It's Nikki. She wishes to speak with you."

I caught her eye, sharing the one look we always did when Erik was up to no good. She inhaled and closed her eyes, stepping back to let me in. Jeremy made to follow and she blocked his path.

"Thank you, Monsieur. Good day!"

I just about saw the look of shock he wore as the door closed sharply in his face. Madame Giry locked it, just in case he didn't get the message. She turned, and in the candlelight, I saw more wrinkles in her skin than ever before.

"What's he done now?" she said, gesturing to the armchair by the bookshelf.

It was a sweet little room, dimly lit, with the minimal furniture: a bed by the wall with a chest at the foot, a dressing table along the opposite wall next to the door where she sat, with pictures framing the wall above, and by the chest, my armchair, the armoire and bookshelf, which took up much of the space in the tiny room. Gaslamps and candles sat where they could, illuminating the space in soft, orange glows.

I looked around, composing myself once more in her presence; Madame Giry gave off a very respectable, superior air, enough to make one sit straighter and adopt an etiquette they never usually held.

I raised my chin. "He hit me."

Madame Giry's forehead contorted into a series of lines. She squinted at me, as if I were a curiosity in a museum. "Dear, I'm afraid I don't understand."

My hands and toes folded into balls. Why was everyone making my life so difficult today? "Erik raised his hand over my unmasked face and connected his palm with me with a violent—"

"I know what _hit_ means!" she said, her voice sharp enough to make me wince and button my lip. "What I want to know is _why_? _Why_ did he hit you, girl?"

"You tell me! He's never hit me before! I was sure he wouldn't dare! Look, I'll show you the mark he left!" I made to undo my mask, but she shut her eyes tight and held up her hand, turning her face away.

"Oh, _please_ , woman! Have some respect for an old lady! Keep that thing on!" She nearly gagged but managed to keep herself dignified. "Did you say anything to make him angry?"

"Perhaps..."

" _Nikita_!" she groaned, leaning to the side to rest her head in her hand on the vanity table.

"He told me that _Don Juan Triumphant_ is finished!" I stressed, wringing my hands out. "And that he would keep his end of our bargain!"

"Bargain?" She peered at me from her palm, her voice heavy and tired.

"You were there, Antoinette," I sighed. "You and Nadir made him promise too. Don't tell me you've forgotten!"

"Believe it or not, my life involves more than looking after masked composers and their ten year old bargains."

"But you remember when I found him in the Hall of Mirrors?"

For once, the quick tongue of Madame Giry was silenced.

"And surely the pact to comes to mind now?"

" _I promise not to kill myself until_ Don Juan Triumphant _is complete,_ " she muttered, looking over her curled fingers into her reflection. "But Nikki... have you not thought that it's only fair for him to die?"

With that, I stood from the chair, the fire ignited in my veins once more. "How could you _say_ that, Antoinette? This is _Erik_ we're talking about! Not a sick, old dog!"

"That's hardly a fair diagnosis, Nikita. In case you haven't forgotten, you've been away for five years. People can change a lot in that time, which is exactly what Erik has done; the Erik of today and the Erik you're trying to save are not the same people. I've watched him all this time, and I say he is not well!"

"But to _die_?" I cried, running my hands through my loosening hair. "How is that going to help?"

"I've been trying to help him for ten years! I tell you, Nikita, he is not getting better! And can you blame him? After his childhood with his mother, the gypsies, his time in Persia? No one could walk out of that with a skip in their step!"

"But I-"

"You're trying to save a child who doesn't exist anymore. Erik has become someone different to that little boy in Rouen! Unless you see who he is now, you will never help him. And the Erik he's become is a frightening man. You'd be a fool to go back down to him! Admit it, Nikita, you've failed him! We all have."

"I have _not_ failed!" I snapped, glaring at her until I thought I'd burst. How could she condone this? How could she think it was fair to let him die like an animal? To hell with 'change'! To hell with her! "If you have nothing positive to tell me, I bid you _good day_!"

I stormed for the door, unlocking it, throwing it open and storming out, leaving it to bang against the frame. Jeremy sat against the wall just up the hallway, twiddling his thumbs, my cloak spread over his lap. When he saw me, he jumped to his feet, offering me his arm. I marched on, heading for the stables with intent.

"Nikki!" he called, sprinting after me, carrying my belongings in a bundle of fabric. He skidded on his heel before me, blocking my way.

"What?" I snapped. He recoiled, clutching my cloak to his chest in surprise. I scolded myself and asked again, softly. "What is it, Jeremy?"

"Don't you want to wear your cloak if you're going out?"

I eyed him warily as he offered me the cloak and money purse. "There's a catch to this somehow, isn't there."

"Absolutely. If you're taking a horse, I'm going with you."

"No, you're not!"

He snatched the cloak from my reach, holding it high over his head so I'd have to jump for it. I didn't of course, just folded my arms at him in annoyance.

"Jeremy—"

"You're not going out alone in such a state," he said, holding his hand before my face when I tried to walk on. "I'm not stupid, Nikki, and if I have to carry you back to your room and watch you all night, I will."

"You're not being fair!"

"Life never is, Nikki!" he cried. I stepped back, tongue held. "You think I didn't cry _'It's not fair'_ when Papa and Julie were murdered? Or when my cousin was married and I was set aside for confidences, and without a wife of my own? Do you think I didn't cry myself to sleep in my apartment from loneliness for years? If anyone can say _'It's not fair!'_ , it's me!"

He looked to his feet and swallowed. "I'm not going to lose another person I love. Because that's the truth of it: I love you! I don't know when I began to love you, but suddenly all I could think of was - _is -_ you, and when I see you in person, everything else tunes out! When you laugh one of your rare, _real_ laughs, I feel as light as air, and when you're upset, I've never felt so down. And I enjoy every minute of it, because no matter what feeling you inspire me with, it can either never be as horrible as those nights alone or it tops every happiness I've ever received."

I stood before him, staring at my feet, and felt him lift his eyes to my mask. Annoyingly, he was right. Jeremy was no child. He'd experienced just as much pain as I had, albeit in very different situations, yet he still managed to march on. I bit back a rush of guilt. He stepped forwards, abandoning my cloak to the floor, and raised my chin with a gentle finger.

I met his eyes - his sad, worried, green eyes, which reflected the flickering hues of the torches on the walls and enchanted me to step just a bit closer, until I could see the flecks of glowing amber streaked amongst the green. Entranced, I reached to lay a hand on his cheek.

"I won't risk you," he whispered, leaning his forehead against my masked one. "Even for all the money in the world, I won't risk losing you. And _you'll_ always have _me_."

As he pulled me into his chest, a few stray tears leaked down my cheeks, even when I thought I'd cried myself dry. I laid my ear over his chest, listening to his heart, and wrapped my arms tight around his thin frame.

 _You'll have Jeremy._

He pressed a kiss to my hair and rested his cheek on my head. I remembered I used to do the same for Erik.

 _Erik._ The man I'd always thought to protect but had now - deep, deep down - come to fear. Despite the threat of the Masquerade, of Christine and her Angel and _Don Juan Triumphant_ , I somehow felt safe. I would have Jeremy. No matter what, I would always have Jeremy Desrosiers.

The Masquerade would decide everything.

 _Wait._ I raised my head from Jeremy's chest and frowned. _Erik still has my mink slippers._


	24. Chapter 21 p1 Red Death, Passing By

**As Raoul once more passed through the great crush-room, this time in the wake of his guide, he could not help noticing a group crowding around a person whose disguise, eccentric air and gruesome appearance were causing a sensation. It was a man dressed all in scarlet, with a huge hat and feathers on the top of a wonderful death's head. From his shoulders hung an immense red-velvet cloak, which trailed along the floor like a king's train; and on this cloak was embroidered, in gold letters, which everyone read and repeated aloud, "Don't touch me! I am Red Death, passing by!"**

 **~Gaston Leroux, The Phantom of the Opera.**

* * *

"Breath _in_ , Kitty!" Beatrice cinched my corset tighter and I let out a wheezy gasp. "You'll never get this dress on if you don't think _slim_!"

I hissed at her reflection, feeling like a scarecrow. Of course, Christine looked pretty as a picture as she sat waiting for us, reading a favourite novel, dressed in her black domino.

"How will Jeremy keep his attention on you if you look like every other woman in the room?"

I scowled at her as she went past. "Perhaps I've seen enough of Jeremy Desrosiers to last me a lifetime!"

I'd spent the remainder of 1881 with Jeremy. Or rather, he spent his with me. He'd become like a shadow, a second skin, a presence I could never shake. Even at night, he had commandeered the room across the hall from me, leaving his little apartment in the murky parts of the city in exchange for never being more than thirty yards away from me.

At first, it was a comfort knowing that, for the first time, someone cared enough to dedicate themselves to me. Even at work - the Opera House must be kept clean, after all, and the sets, chains, ropes and horses in good working order - Jeremy would sneak away five minutes early before lunch and meet me for a stroll around the city, usually just to the Pont Royal and back, eating our sandwiches and talking about life's oddities as we went.

I never once mentioned Erik, though I heard plenty of stories of galloping from Rosiers-sur-Garonne to the sweet shops in Toulouse.

But by the thirtieth of December, it was all becoming a bit... much.

Wherever I would go, Jeremy would follow, something that unnerved me, because I was so used to coming and going as I pleased. Mixed with a growing concern about Erik's masquerade talk last month, my weekend was not as festive as I'd hoped it would be.

Beatrice poked me in the ribs and I squealed. Christine put her book down, frowning at us.

"Stop being such _girls_!" she sighed. "And hurry up with that dress! I'm going to the ball in no more than twenty minutes, and if I must go alone with Raoul, I shall! Monsieur Desrosiers and Count Philippe will simply have to find other ladies! I'm sure La Sorelli is very jealous of you tonight, Beatrice!"

Beatrice shrieked and threw my gothic, wine red dress on as fast as she could. When, ten minutes later, I motioned to my hair, she simply waved a hand at it.

"You'll have to make do!" she said, tying her mask on. It was a shame, to mask such a pretty face, seemingly dusted with evening sunlight. "Tie it up nicely and it won't be a problem!"

I left it down.

Four knocks at Christine's dressing room door sent Beatrice into a frenzy as she fiddled with her earrings. "Are you three quite ready yet? We've been standing out here for at least fifteen minutes!"

"Heavens!" Beatrice cried, rushing to the vanity mirror and fixing her mask. I rolled my eyes at her inexperience, though it was comical. My own mask covered the same amount of my face as usual, right down to my jaw, but it was decorated with more patterns than usual, and golden ones at that.

Christine took my arm and led me to the door as Beatrice ran around the room, searching for something she'd put safely away and could no longer find.

"Come," she whispered. "Don't keep your Monsieur waiting. I'll see to her."

She shoved me out through the door and shut it behind me. Six eyes raced to observe me, all hidden behind masks of their own; four shimmering blue ones, and two glittering emeralds.

Jeremy looked more than handsome in his White Knight costume - a nod to the book I'd been ranting about on Saturday - and black mask, just like the one I'd been wearing for the week. He looked me up and down as if he couldn't quite believe I was there before him, in a wine red gown that Christine had lent me. Swallowing his nerves, he offered me a shaky arm.

Philippe and Raoul exchanged boyish smiles and shooed us away.

"I have only once, at a glance, seen your face," Jeremy said as we walked through the halls towards the ballroom, his voice soft and shaking here and there. "But every time I see you, you seem to be more and more beautiful."

I laughed and caught his arm tighter. "Is flattery going to be your wooing strategy tonight? It was humour yesterday, and wit on Saturday!"

He smiled properly as we strode through one hall and into the next, to a pair of closed doors and men ready to take our tickets.

"Wait for us!" I looked over my shoulder as two pairs of feet thundered up the hall behind us. Jeremy followed my gaze. Christine was dragging Raoul by the hand at tremendous speed, waving her ticket at us. His free hand was keeping a very powdery wig in place. "Nikki, do _wait_! Not everyone is able to run in their corsets!"

"A skill learned in very unpleasant circumstances, let me assure you!" I called back, stopping to let them catch up.

"Reservation tickets, if you please, messieurs, mesdames," one clerk said, holding his hand out expectantly. He read through them and nodded. I tried not to bite my lip when he squinted at the last line of our pair. "By order of O.G...?"

He raised his eyes to me nervously. I smiled my best, looping my arm through Jeremy's.

"Alright..." he murmured, opening the door for us. "Don't let me catch you in trouble."

"Wouldn't dream of it!" I called over my shoulder, my good mood somewhat quenched. A rush of music hit us like a brick wall and Jeremy squeezed my hand with his spare one. I giggled and led him into the throng of people.

The whole foyer was alive with music and laughter. Shoes tapped against the floor in time with the others as a line dance continued nearby. Jeremy and I stopped to watch for a moment, delighting in all the swirling costumes and masks.

"I should find my card!" I called to him. Even with him standing next to me, he looked at me with narrow eyes, canting his head. "Card!" I called again, miming writing on my palm. I'd left my dancing card on the table at the side of the room this morning, amongst all the others, for various gentlemen to sign. A look of realisation filled his eyes behind his mask.

"I'll fetch some wine while you do!" he called back. I nodded and made to work my way through the throng of people, but he caught my arm and pulled me back slightly. "Don't get lost!"

I rolled my eyes at him and went to find my card, squeezing my way between the other party-goers to get to the little side table by the wall. Most were adjusting their masks, finding them an uncomfortable addition to their attire. The devil inside me couldn't help but smirk at their discomfort and ignorance.

I found the mountain of cards behind a crowd of other ladies, their bustles and crinolines taking up more space than usual. Cards were going everywhere in their desperate hunts.

"Countess de Chandon," one was reading out, before tossing them aside and picking up the next. "Baroness Catherine... Baroness... Countess... Viscountess... Duchess... Marquess... dear Lord!"

"Excuse me," I said, tapping her on the shoulder. "Did you see mine?"

She smirked at her peers and handed me a card, leaning over to whisper in my ear. "My dear Mademoiselle," she said, "almost _everyone_ has seen your card." And she pulled away laughing.

I frowned down at it, at the same cursive all the way down, bar two lines. How could everyone have seen it if there were only three people, most of which were Jeremy? Unless they were making fun of him this morning as he signed as much as he could.

The other two names were written in different hands, scrawled to the point where I couldn't quite distinguish them.

A hand grabbed my arm, spinning me to face a cheery Christine, who looked perfectly beautiful in her black domino gown and mask. I passed her her card from the table, still trying to read my own. Who on earth had learned to write so childishly? Had a ten-year-old escaped into polite society?

Christine passed me a glass of wine as the music came to a slow halt.

"Jeremy is talking to Raoul while he fills his glass," Christine said. I nodded and she grinned, nudging me like a child. "It's only my opinion, but I think you two would make a wonderful wedded couple. Have you ever considered being someone's wife?"

I choked on my wine. Some stray droplets of the crimson liquid spilt down my front and stained my dress, blending with its namesake fabric. "I _beg_ your pardon?"

She smiled further, her pearly teeth catching the light of the candles. I wiped my chin. "Has he not asked you?"

 _"Of course_ _not!"_ I cried, ready to spill my wine right down her bodice. Some party-goers watched us, their eyes frowning. I cleared my throat and straightened my posture. "I mean, I'm afraid domestic life was never my greatest strength. I'm always moving, travelling, working, _doing things._ And when I'm not, I'm making sure Erik is alright. I don't think there's enough time in my life for marriage!"

"Oh, come now, Kitty! Be serious!"

"I am quite serious!" I exclaimed, looking around the room with a little scoff. "Strong marriages require strong love, and love cannot happen _quite_ so quickly!"

Christine opened her mouth to giggle and argue lightly, but a hand caught her arm. The powdered wig of Monsieur le Vicomte bounced along as he came to a halt beside us, the music picking up once more. Jeremy followed, clutching a glass of wine.

"Might I have this dance?" Raoul chuckled, then caught my eye. He took Christine's glass from her hand and handed it to me with a charming smile. "I'm going to have to steal Miss Daae from you, Mademoiselle. My apologies."

 _'It's alright,'_ I mouthed, stepping back and letting him whisk her away across the hall. I watched as he led her to the next forming dance and stood opposite her in his own line, laughing every second, leaving just Jeremy and me by the cards table.

"I'm sorry I was delayed," he said. "The Vicomte certainly knows how to talk!"

I chuckled and went back to examining my card. I should have been dancing this line dance with Jeremy, but for our wine to hand.

"Can you read this?" I asked, gesturing to the first scrawl that wasn't in his hand. He frowned at the writing and worried at his lip.

"No. I'm afraid I can't. Just looks like a random squiggle to me."

"Exactly," I nodded, barely hearing him breathe a long sigh. "I can read _your_ writing, but these two are impossible! What does that say? Red something?"

"I don't know."

"And this first one! Viod? What on earth is a _Viod_?"

I looked up at him for any hint, but even with his mask on I saw the tightness of his jaw when he said, staring into the foyer, "Would you like some more wine, Nikki?"

I declined and drank the rest. "We've missed two dances and it's New Year's. We can't spend the whole night downing alcohol! Let's dance!"

Amid protests of, "But we're French!" I pulled him away to wait for the next dance.

* * *

Three dances in, the foyer was filling with yet more people and the music was the loudest I'd ever heard. Amid the delighted cheers and laughter of the other masqueraders, I stood out for a little break as Jeremy made light conversation with Beatrice, who was trying to convince him that _yes,_ Jamaica _is_ hotter than the France-Spain border, and _no_ , she would _not_ say something in Jamaican (I should mention they'd both had more than enough to drink at this point).

I stood by the door, fanning my neck; despite the winter chill, I'd never been in a hotter room. I thought of lifting my mask a touch to fan my burning face, but with so many people here, I quickly decided against it.

I scanned the room, observing the throng of laughing women in their fine and strange gowns alike and their gallant gentlemen dressed as princes, heroes or beasts. Each and every costume was intricate and stunning and I couldn't help but admire them from afar as they put shame to my wine red gown and the frills Erik had readjusted for me. If they looked close enough, they would realise it was an old opera costume, but they didn't.

A chorus of gasps made me turn to the Grand Escalier. The sight drew one from my own lips and I froze to just stare and gape.

A man was descending the staircase, one foot at a time, dressed in vibrant, scarlet robes. From his shoulders hung a long, velvet cape, embroidered with gold stitching that formed words I couldn't quite make out. The feathers in his stupendous hat bounced with every step he descended the stairs, and the ends of his cloak, to which the cape was sewn, trailed the steps at his booted feet. But by far the most impressive part of his attire was the huge skull mask that scanned the foyer, hiding the pair of gleaming eyes searching for something, or some _one_. A daring young man tried to touch that mask. A skeletal hand shot out from beneath the robe and caught his wrist, drawing a cry of pain from him.

"Excuse me," I muttered to the people blocking my path, forcing my legs into action and pushing my way forward into the crowd.

I waited at the bottom of the stairs, glowering at the man beneath the mass of red fabric. The skull mask looked straight at me, and, for civility's sakes, I curtsied.

"Monsieur," I said, taking his arm when he offered it. A mass of women standing in the middle of the foyer watched me curiously. We must have looked quite the oddities, the gothic princess in her wine-red dress dragging the six-foot man in the explosion of red velvet fabric down the next set of stairs and out of sight.

"Is this about the dance I signed for this morning?" he asked, and I could hear his very grin. My hands curled into tight balls until I thought my nails would pierce the fabric and make my hands bleed.

"You know very well what this is about! Erik, what are you _dressed_ as?" I snapped, gesturing to his exquisitely flamboyant attire. I reached to touch the sash, but he waved a bony finger at me and tutted beneath the huge skull head.

"Can't you read?" he purred. "It says 'DO NOT TOUCH ME!'"

"In _golden embroidery_ , you _fop_!" I cried, poking him in the stomach. "I thought I told you to blend in! Not stand out like a bleeding thumb! Now answer my question!"

He chuckled and stepped back, spreading his arms wide to show off the crimson robes. The feathers in his hat bounced as he moved and he swept the cloak away before he could tread on it. "The Masque of Red Death, obviously!"

Something inside me exploded. I managed to keep myself from leaping at him for this craziness, but flushed, shoulders tense, and drew myself up to full height, pointing at him in a seething rage. "I am about to _slap_ your 'Masque of Red Death', young man, and then we'll see who's so cocky tonight!"

"Cocky?" he asked, folding his arms. "Me?"

 _"Erik!"_

"Why are you angry? I haven't done anything wrong!"

"Yet!" I scoffed, mirroring his pose. "I told you to tone it down! _This_ -" I gestured again to the costume, "-is the exact _opposite_!"

"Nikki?"

I spun on my heel. Jeremy stood with one foot on the top stair, the other in the foyer, his eyes shifting between me and Erik, who tensed and turned away slightly.

Jeremy held out a hand to me, taking another step and swallowing. "I'm sorry. Are you coming back to dance?"

"Yes, of course," I said, a bit too quickly, heading up the stairs to him with Erik following. "Jeremy, this is my friend I sometimes mention. Meet Erik."

I didn't add his famous title. It would only lead to an awkward silence later. Not very festive.

Jeremy offered his hand. "How do you do, Monsieur? I'm Jeremy Desrosiers. Stagehand."

Erik's mask lowered to look at the offered greeting. But then he walked on, brushing past my friend without so much as a 'hello'. Jeremy watched after him, stunned, as Erik made his reappearance amongst the drinking or drunk masqueraders.

"Well..." he spluttered, visibly searching for the right words. I wanted to sink into the floor and never come back, curl up in my room Down Below and bolt the door for a few years. "That's... Erik?"

"Very Erik," I muttered, taking his shaking hand and letting him lead me back to the dance floor. "Very Erik indeed."

* * *

Despite Erik's rudeness, Jeremy was unfazed and as elegant as ever in his dancing. But my dance with the mysterious 'Viod' was fast approaching, and I couldn't help but search the foyer for someone trying to catch my eye at every turn in the dance.

"Do you see him?" he asked as we passed during our final dance and returned to our lines. I glanced around again, up and down the row of men opposite me. The music called for me to walk behind the lady beside me, and Jeremy mirrored.

"No," I replied, walking out to pass him again and return to my old spot. "I don't even know what he looks like!"

"Then I'll just have to steal you away for the rest of the evening!" he chuckled, one voice amongst a throng of others. I stepped back and pushed myself onto my toes, then forwards and repeated the step.

"Not until I slap some penwork into the man!" I said as we caught hands and walked in a circle, Raoul and Christine completing our box for the move.

"Who?" Christine asked.

"My next dance. I can't read their writing."

"Viod someone, she said," Jeremy added.

"What the devil is a 'Viod'?" Christine exclaimed, frowning at me. I shrugged.

"Ignore them and dance with Jeremy then," Raoul piped up. I shot him a dry look.

"You might be a Vicomte, but I'm not afraid to say I'm going to completely ignore the tricks you three are trying to play on Jeremy and me."

He smiled innocently, blinking behind his mask. "What tricks?"

We returned to our lines before I could shoot a reply. The music came to a long halt and I curtsied to Jeremy. No one had come forward. No one claiming to be Viod had even spoken to me this evening. Viod my foot. Red Death my foot. I was going to dance with Je-

A hand found my shoulder and I jumped.

Behind me stood a man, no taller than Jeremy, with a flaming mask covering what appeared to be flat cheeks, protruding eyebrows and a large forehead. A pair of light, narrow eyes, almost hidden in the shadows of the Venitian mask, looked back at me.

"Hello, sister."

I cried out so loudly that everyone turned to see me stumbling over my own feet. Jeremy managed to catch me, but I took him down with me and ended up laying atop him in the middle of the dance floor.

The man with the light brown hair, practically akin to mine, strode forwards to where we were laying. I scrambled off Jeremy, hearing him let out a groan from the air I'd knocked from his lungs. I tried to stand, but my knees were like jelly and I fell back to the floor, resorting to crawling away on my back, eyes trained in horror on the man before me.

I felt my heart harden as he smiled. It was the same smile he'd given Erik when he'd got him cornered, five boys to one.

He offered me his hand but I batted it away, forcing some grip into my legs and standing. The name on the card wasn't Viod.

It was Vlad.

"Monsieur," he said, pulling Jeremy up and dusting down his coat for him. "I apologise." His steely gaze found me again, and when I jutted out my chin in defiance, he simply chuckled and reached to hook it with a finger. "I do hope you've been keeping an eye on my little sister."

 **To Be Continued...**


	25. Chapter 21 part 2

"You!" I spluttered. Vlad grinned, his teeth as crooked as his soul.

"Me, sister _._ "

"Am I missing something?" Jeremy said, taking my arm and wrapping his own around my waist, clutching me to his side. Vlad turned his devilish attention to him, canting his head as he'd always done when he was plotting.

"Are you my sister's fiancé, Monsieur?"

"Fiancé?" Jeremy choked, turning a vibrant crimson. "Well... I... I don't know? Not really...? I mean, Nikki and I... It's-"

"Leave him out of it!" I snapped at Vlad, who took delight in my anger. "He's not my fiancé, no more than you are my brother!"

"Ah, but my dear little Anya-"

"Anya?" Jeremy frowned, drawing away to stare at me. "Nikki, _what_ is he talking about?"

"I'll explain later," I hissed back. "Go and... fetch me some wine, Jeremy! Take your time about it too."

"Perfect!" Vlad said. "We can't waste a good New Year's!" He gestured to the clock as it ticked on for twenty to midnight.

Jeremy froze, glancing at me for reassurance. I shooed him away, my heart pounding in my throat. If only Erik were here! Saying that, if Erik _did_ happen to pass this way, and if he _did_ happen to see Vlad, everyone's New Year's celebrations would be ruined by a vicious murder. No, perhaps it was best if Erik _wasn't_ here...

"What are you doing here?" I growled, folding my arms tight. Vlad smiled again, a look horrible enough to shatter glass.

"How old are you, Anya?"

"Did Mother teach you _any_ manners? Or did you just follow Papa to the tavern every Saturday and learn them there?"

"You must be about thirty by now," he mused, reaching out and ruffling my hair. I caught his wrist. I could break it easily, shatter it into fragments. But it was too good a punishment for him, and I'd never be satisfied with it. I let him go, my blood boiling in my veins. "After all, I was but four years old when you were born."

"I hope you grew up and not just old! But given everything you ever did, I find it unlikely." One wrong move and I'd snap entirely. He knew that. He wanted that. "For your information, Vladimir,I am twenty-nine."

He paused, his eyes raking up and down my body, and nodded slowly. "And is it all true? You stabbed that minister in Berlin?"

I shushed him, scowling. "Say one word to Jeremy, and I'll see that you're hung by this time tomorrow. No one will miss you!"

"Ah, but they would!" he replied, tapping my nose and grinning. "To answer your first question, I'm here at our dear papa's orders to bring you home."

I opened my mouth to call him a filthy name.

"Drinks?"

Jeremy offered me a smooth red wine and I took it from him. Vladimir raised his own glass to me, and when I simply glared, he turned instead to Jeremy.

"To the New Year!" he said, clinking their glasses. "And-" He glanced at me. "-to the anonymity of Paris."

That was it.

I threw my wine all down his suit, sparing only a glance at his look of momentary horror before I grabbed Jeremy's hand and pulled him away, out of sight in the crowd. He opened his mouth to protest, but I shook my head.

"We must find Erik."

Jeremy hesitated for a moment, but I gripped his arms and looked right into his eyes.

"Please, Jeremy. If you find him, send him to me. I'll explain later."

He didn't look convinced; if anything, there was a deep sadness in his eyes, as if his trust in me, in what he knew about me, was shattered. I wasn't the person he thought I was. All the same, he took my hand from his shoulder and kissed it, slipping away into the crowd.

"Excuse me, Mademoiselle," I heard him say as I went my own way. "I'm looking for the Red Death, Mademoiselle."

I climbed the Grand Escalier, hoping for a viewpoint above all the towering Parisian hats and feathers. From the top step, I searched the foyer for the hat and red robes as a ballroom dance began. People found their partners, and amongst the throng I spotted Beatrice on Count Phillippe's arm, laughing at something he was whispering in her ear. Christine stood nearby, talking to another man with a frown stretched beneath her mask.

I froze. Amid my distraction, Erik had cornered her. My throat dry, I bolted back down the stairs.

"Excuse me," I said, trying to push my way between a group. One gentleman looked down at me and frowned. He shooed me away, turning his back to me to continue his conversation with his lady.

" _Excuse_ me!" I shouted, barging my way through. He stumbled forwards, landing in her arms quite intimately. She shrieked, slapping his barely masked face with a loud crack. I ignored the commotion I'd managed to cause and hurried on. The music played on and a storm of dancing couples swept past me in time to the sounds of violins, cellos, flutes and harps.

"Erik!" I called, pushing through the last few people until I saw a trace of red robes. "Erik, I-"

I stopped, unable to help staring. Erik had Christine in his arms and was turning her in gentle circles. His red cloak and her black dress swished against each other with feathery touches. Amid the boisterous ballroom dancing, they were a picture of serenity and silence.

He leaned down to speak to her, but she turned her head away, doe eyes screwed shut. A dancing couple smacked into me and I staggered forwards. Christine's eyes opened to find me stumbling towards her.

"Christine!" I said, shocked at the sight. Did my eyes deceive me? Had Erik actually earned a dance in that costume? With Christine no less!

All thoughts of my brother tumbled out of my mind as Christine let her forehead rest against Erik's arm. His steps faltered but he kept dancing. Where was Raoul during all of this? Didn't he know his fiancée was dancing with the man he'd love to have arrested, with the Opera Ghost?

Someone caught my hand and I jumped.

"I looked everywhere," Jeremy said. "I see you found him first anyhow. _Now_ will you explain all of this? We only have ten minutes before midnight."

But I shook my head and put a hand on his chest to stop him from marching right over to Erik and demanding his answers from him. "Just promise me you won't mention Vladimir to my friend. If you value your safety, and everyone else's, please, Jeremy."

Jeremy sighed, looking away, his mouth set into a tight frown. "I promise," he said, like a child being made to do his chores. I wanted to scream at his attitude, shake him back and forth until he understood why he should fear my brother, why Erik must not even know he was alive. But I couldn't. Not in polite society. Someone nearly spun into us and Jeremy tugged me out of the dancing line.

His mouth hung open all of a sudden. "Nikki..."

"What?" He pointed over my shoulder and I turned to find Erik leaning down to whisper in Christine's ear. I bit back a cry of horror; Christine had shut her eyes again, her bottom lip trembling.

I saw the burning fire even as the sparks were forming. Once Christine froze, all of my worst fears came true.

A tear rolled down her cheek from beneath her mask. She tried to hold strong, compose herself, but a sob racked her throat and she pulled away, standing back on her heels. Erik gripped her waist that bit tighter. Jeremy pulled me behind him gently, one step at a time.

Erik murmured something further, but Christine sobbed again and tore off her mask, burying her face in her hands. It fell to the floor with a clatter, stopping people in their conversations and their dancing as they turned to stare. The music came to a halt, one instrument at a time and the musicians in the balconies looked up from their instruments. Silence descended until only Christine's sobs filled the foyer.

"Nikki," Jeremy whispered, looking over his shoulder to whisper in my ear. "Nikki, what's happening? It's like an Italian opera! I don't speak Italian!"

Erik shrank away from Christine, cowering like a scolded dog before her. He stretched his arms towards her face as he sank but she cringed away. It was a sight you'd see only once: Red Death, in his grand outfit that had snatched everyone's astonishment, crouched before the black domino as she wept, his arms stretched towards her like a sinner reached for the Virgin Mother.

He tried to take a step forward, nearly on his knees now, and Christine howled with tears. Erik let out a painful groan and collapsed to the floor, burying his masked head in his hands and whimpering.

"What is going on here?" Monsieur Firmin cried, striding out from the crowd with André at his heels. Raoul shot forwards from behind them, catching Christine and wrapping her in a tight embrace. He tried to take her from Erik's presence, but she simply cried out and reached to touch his cloaked shoulder. I saw the conflict in her eyes as her beautiful hair fell away from its shape. She couldn't bear to look at Erik, couldn't bear to hear his voice, but to leave him on the floor in such a pitiful mess...

If it hadn't been for the hundreds of onlookers, if it hadn't been for Jeremy - although that ground was only thin ice now- I would have hurried over to help him up. But amongst all these witnesses, I could be nothing more than another spectator in the crowd.

Raoul managed to walk his fiancée away and cradled her in the front lines of the gathered circle, an arena where they were the unwilling actors. Erik pushed himself up from the floor, the magnificent costume suddenly no longer intimidating. I caught sight of his glowing eyes in the shadows of that mask and clutched Jeremy's arm.

Erik stood like a lifeless tin soldier, who needed to be wound up before he could move again. He drew a deep breath, swallowed, and reached inside his cloak.

"Monsieur!" Firmin cried, striding forward to meet his guest. "What is the meaning of this disturbance?" Erik stayed quiet, staring at the folder, and the manager, tearing off his mask, flushed.

"You will answer to me or to the policemen outside!"

Erik turned, a fire in his step. Firmin stepped back in surprise, retreating further when the Masque of Red Death stormed towards him.

"This is the next opera you will perform, gentlemen" snapped the voice beneath the skull. "And this time, Christine Daae will be your lead. Disobey me and your lives will become living hells!"

Firmin glared, standing tall and puffing out his chest. "How dare you walk into this celebration to terrorise my staff and patrons and order us about? As the manager here, I insist you take your leave!"

"On the contrary, it is I who manage this opera house! Now, let's make this simple." Like a magician's hat, Erik drew a familiar, thing and twisting shape from his sleeve. Jeremy pulled me closer at the sight of the Punjab lasso. "You _will_ perform my opera, with credit to my name as the composer—" He handed it to André, but the quivering man didn't take it. "—and Christine Daae will play the leading lady. Defy me and I garrot you here and now! Let's not bring it to that, gentlemen; it will take too long to clean up."

" _He's_ your friend?" Jeremy hissed, scowling at Erik and clutching me to his side.

"It's... _complicated_ ," I whispered back.

Firmin glared at Erik but spoke to André in a low voice. The other manager reached out with a quaking hand and snatched the folder, holding it at arm's length as if it were a venomous snake.

"Well done," Erik growled, sheathing his sword.

"The Phantom," someone hissed a little too loudly. Erik's head snapped to face them in the crowd, picking out the whistle-blower immediately.

"If I am a phantom," he snapped, grabbing the edge of his cloak, "it is because Man's hatred has made me so!"

A sharp bang plunged the foyer into instant darkness. Panicked screams arose and the thundering of feet for an exit became the final music of the evening. Jeremy caught me tighter, holding me to him as the crowd around us dashed blindly for a way out of the haunted building.

The clock struck midnight. 1882 had begun.


	26. Chapter 22 Strange and Wild and Dark

**This chapter is a bit too long but I think it's better to keep it in one part than split it. You'll see why.**

* * *

With the foyer in darkness and the partygoers screaming all around me, I could hardly hear myself think. But one question kept coming to mind: how could he? How could he catch my eye and still threaten to kill people?

As Jeremy called to someone across the room, I squirmed out of his grip and bolted for the descending staircase. People smacked into me from all sides, altering my course every few steps until my foot slipped.

I gave a sharp cry, just managing to catch myself before I tumbled down the stairs. Ignoring Jeremy from somewhere behind me, I swallowed and bolted down.

 _Hidden passage, hidden passage, hidden passage._ I threw myself against the far wall, slapping at different panels. _Hidden passage, hidden passage,_ _hidden-_ Aha!

The wall moved and I shot through it into the brightness of the tunnel, where a single torch lit the stone walls and floor. The panel closed behind me.

"Erik!" I called, fetching it from its holder and hurrying up the tunnel.

"Nikki!"

I froze in my run, staring back the way I'd come. If Jeremy hit it hard enough, and it the right place, it would move. I'd be caught by him and however many _gendarmes_ were following.

"Nikki! Where did you go? _Nikita_!"

Shuddering at the thought, I hurried on, the dress doing nothing to help me run.

The tunnel was by no means the shortest route to the fifth cellar. It was one of the longer paths, littered with traps and sharp descents, a cross-country run in the dark cellars designed to keep _gendarmes_ busy while we scarpered.

"Erik!" I called again, finally reaching the lake, out of breath and desperate to be let out of my corset. I contemplated using the little juts along the lakeside to get to the portcullis passageway, but on second thoughts, my crinoline would never allow it. Neither was the boat there, and when I tried the passage to my room, it was shut.

Erik had retreated into his little burrow and locked the world out.

And now, where it never had before, that included me.

* * *

"Erik?" I hissed, opening the library door quietly and peering in. I'd waited six hours before I heard the sound of the portcullis passageway opening and by now, after dozing on the bank of the lake, my once beautiful dress was damp and even ripped in places. I'd managed to slip in when he shooed Monkey Nadir out and had forgotten to close the door.

"Are you in here?" I crept the rest of the way in, cursing the creaking floorboard under my breath and closing the door softly behind me.

One foot in front of the other, I tiptoed over to the opposite wall, where the lit, roaring fireplace warmed the dark floor and illuminated the high shelves of books that lined every inch of wall they could.

I selected a random title and flipped to the first page it opened at, skimming through it without taking anything in.

"What are you doing here _now?_ I thought I'd scared you off for good." The growling voice made me jump slightly. I glanced over my shoulder at where Erik was sitting in the high-backed armchair, a glass and bottle of red wine on the side table next to him. Still dressed in his red cloak and feathery hat, he was staring into the flames across from him, running the tip of his finger around the rim of the glass occasionally. Either way, he was stubbornly refusing to look at me.

"You should know it takes more than a hideous masquerade costume to frighten off Nikita Anya Madeleine de La Chance," I said, replacing the book and turning to lean against the bottom shelves beside the fireplace. Erik grunted, still fire-gazing.

"Even after I hit you?"

"Well, are you sorry about it?"

He took a gulp of wine, finishing the glass, and set it back down with a thud. "Not in the slightest."

I felt my tongue numb for a moment. "You're not sorry for hitting me? Or for ruining everyone's masquerade?"

"Neither. And you know I never will be. It's time for you to give up."

My heart stilled. The world seemed to turn a third of its usual speed, and even the candles flickered slower for a second.

"You should know by now," I said, clearing my throat, "that I never give up."

He turned his head away and pulled his hat off, studying the feathers and twirling it through his hands. "You're impossibly stubborn."

"As a mule."

He grunted. I sighed. The flames crackled on. Somewhere in the corridor, Monkey Nadir chattered to himself, having probably let himself back inside.

"If you're here to change my mind—" he started. I held up my hand.

"Giry gave me the history lesson, Erik. I'm not here to give you the pity talks or the awkward persuasions that always lead to someone screaming at the other. I'm here to make sure you make it through the night without—"

He stood so suddenly, his chair toppled backwards with an almighty _crash_ against the floor. Erik's eyes snapped to mine, amber and glowing in the darkness of his black full face mask that left just his lips and chin exposed.

"So you think I'm a liar too? I'm giving it until the premiere night! Aren't you even slightly satisfied with that?"

"I never said you lied," I replied, standing up straight and raising my chin.

"As good as!" he scoffed, crossing his arms and glaring.

"For heaven's sakes, Erik, don't be so petulant!" I cried, my hands bunched up. "I'm here to keep you safe! And to ask what you told Christine when you were dancing! You left her in a fit of tears, you know you did! What did you _say_ to her?"

The glass was in his hand before I had time to realise it. I just about ducked before it shattered behind me against the bookshelf. A shower of glass rained down around me, on my back, shoulders, neck and in my loose hair.

"This is none of your business," he snapped, kicking the table so it clattered down next to the chair. I tried to speak, but could barely open my mouth. Erik smacked his feathery hat to the floor before the fireplace, the orange hues dancing over the fabric. I didn't dare move for fear of slicing my back. Finally, he stood the chair back up and caught the edge of the high-back. A long sigh escaping his lips and he closed his eyes.

"Erik."

"She's a stubborn child," he muttered, shaking his head and looking away at the floor on the other side of the library. "A stubborn, ungrateful child, and yet I cannot be angry with her. Not with my Christine. Erik asked her to play Aminta. She refused at first, so he told her he knew all about her engagement, oh yes! But she wasn't supposed to cry."

He sunk into the armchair, his fingers on his temple, and only then did I peel myself away from the bookshelf.

"If you love her so much," I said, "then why do you insist on denying her Raoul's name? Why are you certain she would choose a life down here when she could spend it in freedom and sunlight?"

"Have you ever loved a person as much as I love her? When you love someone with all your heart, however cold it might be, Nikita, you will be ready to die for them at a moment's notice. They are the first thing you think of in the morning and the last at night. You are a hound, a guard dog, and that is what Erik is when it comes to Christine Daae. She is the true Angel, not he. When you love with a love that is far more than love, nothing can stand in your way to protect them." Then, without looking at me, but staring into the flames with his eyes wide suddenly, he added: "Even if you must sleep outside their room to make sure of it."

I tensed at that. "Jeremy has done nothing to you. Why did you brush him off so rudely?"

But Erik scoffed. "Jeremy Desrosiers," he muttered, reaching to the floor to retrieve the bottle of wine he'd knocked over and stand the table back up. "Like father like son: an unfortunate mess."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He shook his head. "You love him, don't you?"

"Why do you ask?"

"You do then," he muttered, his voice growing darker with every response. He lifted the bottle to his lips and drank heavily.

"Erik—!" I protested, but he held up his hand and set the bottle down.

"A pity, really. You could have done so much better than waste your heart on someone like him, who is less worthy of your heart than a criminal of a queen's."

"You have neither proof nor right to insinuate such things!" I snapped. "My heart is still my own! It is _you_ who wastes your heart on love! If you are not careful, you'll waste your life on it too! Christine is besotted with Raoul! She'll tear your soul from your body and walk all over—"

"If you love Jeremy as I know you do," Erik said, his voice a low growl as the light of the flames danced over his horrible face; Red Death, it seemed, had come to life. "If you love him as I love Christine - and do not deny it, Nikki, I'm no fool! - then you will leave this house and return no more, on pain of your beloved's death."

I held my ground for a moment, hating how sure he sounded of his actions. What had Jeremy done to him? He'd never even mentioned meeting the Opera Ghost! If anything, Jeremy had more right to be angry at Erik!

But when Erik reached for the lasso curled over the back of the chair, a chill rushed down my spine. Jeremy was a risk I was not willing to take.

"Save it for Vladimir!" I cried, bolting for the library door and racing through the parlour into my room, unlocking the passageway as I went. Was this how my life would be now? Rushing from the light to the dark when the spotlight fell on me, then back to the light when the darkness seemed to strangle my soul, my personality, from my body? How had I tangled myself up in this mess?

* * *

I slumped against my bedroom wall next to the Angel, my heart in my throat. It was nearly seven in the morning by now, but instead of hearing the footsteps and chatter of cleaners and ballerinas, the Opera House was silent. Everyone was taking advantage of New Year's Day to sleep in for an hour or two.

I swapped my masquerade mask, which bared a bit too much skin for my liking in public anyhow, for my usual cream porcelain one. I'd take my own advantage this silent morning to wander the halls, clear my mind. Mother had regularly taken turns around the dining room with Madame Destler when they were overwhelmed with work or Vladimir and Erik's fighting.

The candles from last night were still burning and I passed one or two people slumped against the walls, drunk and unconscious. I sighed, shaking out my shoulders. Something cracked beneath my skin and I pulled a face.

I trekked through the halls towards the grand foyer, losing myself in the paintings and stories of different patrons. But the tranquillity lasted only so long.

A hearty laugh from the next corridor, through the arc painted with cherubs and goddesses, met my ears. It was cut off with a crack, as if someone had muffled it with their hand.

"Hush, Guillaume! You mustn't let anyone know!"

Jeremy! Breaking out into a smile at his voice, I stepped along half a pace quicker, trying to sneak up on him for fun, if only to see the face he made when he was surprised.

"Especially not Nikki!"

I stopped in my tracks. Paused behind the wall and hidden from view, my ears pricked. Was 1873 going to be continuously awkward? Was I in for a terrible year?

Guillaume laughed again and a slap echoed through the halls. I peered around the edge of the wall at the two men, who stood by an east window in the dim morning sunlight. Jeremy clutched his arm as his friend continued to holler, bent double and flushed a strange purple, his sides heaving. Men. I rolled my eyes.

When at last Guillaume found his bearings, he was exhausted. Leaning against the wall with closed eyes, he rested his head back against the palms of his hands. "You make me laugh, Desrosiers. It's not good for my health, I think."

"Quiet, Guillaume!" Jeremy hissed again. "If anyone finds out, I'm finished! Now for goodness sakes, pull yourself together and promise me you'll cover for me at work tomorrow. Just tell François I had a family meeting. It couldn't be avoided."

I frowned, peering around the corner slightly, keeping to the shadows as much as possible.

"In the middle of the forest?" Guillaume raised his eyebrows and opened one eye. Jeremy scowled. "He'll believe me in a heartbeat, no questions asked."

"Leave that out. Just say I had to go home on business."

"She doesn't know?"

"Who?"

"The masked girl," Guillaume said, turning his face away and chuckling. "Nikki? Feisty little devil. If you weren't plotting, I'd have her to warm my bed."

Jeremy scowled even more as I felt physically sick. I pressed myself back against the wall, picking up my skirts out of sight.

"Just tell them I brought her with me as a backup. They don't need to know anything else."

Guillaume was quiet for a moment."She's going to think you want to murder her, you know. She'll catch on. Bringing her to the middle of a forest like that. Safety goes out the window. Bye-bye, safety!"

He waved at the window with a smirk and Jeremy flushed.

"That's why you shouldn't say anything of it!" Jeremy hissed, shaking Guillaume by the shoulders. My stomach fell. Safety? Jeremy? Forest? Was I friends with a murderer?

 _Two_ murderers?

I needed to rethink everything.

"It'll just be us two," Jeremy went on. "And by the time she realises, I'll have already- you know. _That_."

If Guillaume wasn't drunk, he was certainly making good of his acting skills.

"What? Does Madame Giry know? She's the girl's go-to for work. Does she know you'll be taking Nikki away from civilisation to do whatever your curious little brain works up?"

Jeremy rolled his eyes and stood his friend up. "Just do what I've told you to, Guillaume. Forget everything else. I'm taking Nikki with me tomorrow and that's all you need to know. Anything else was a bonus for being my friend. Tell François I'm in Rosiers on business with her. By the time he works out where we really were, it'll be too late."

I slapped a hand over my mouth, if only to keep my heart from jumping out. I turned away, my hands shaking at my sides. A pair of shoes clacked in my direction. A rush of panic coursed through me. I backed away, slightly crouched against the wall. Jeremy appeared through the archway and I froze.

He carried on, not sparing me a glance and I nearly breathed a sigh of relief. Only once his footsteps went silent, behind the creaking swing of the hallway door, did I let myself move. I breathed out enough air to fill a hot air balloon and slid down the wall into a mess of wine-red fabric on the floor, vaguely feeling my knees trembling.

Oh God. Help me.

Why was he acting so suspicious? Was I going to die? Why were we going to the woods, which I could only assume were the Bois de Boulogne, on the second of January? By the time people found out where I really was, it would be 'too late'. I'd heard Erik make plans like this. _I'd_ made plans like this, and there was only one answer to the questions burning in my mind.

Jeremy wanted to kill me. He'd worked out that Erik was the Phantom, his father's murderer. And what better way to get his revenge than to take the life his killer's best friend?

I'd trusted him.

I'd _trusted_ him...

 _No._ I forced some movement into my legs, standing shakily and leaning against the wall. I had the upper hand here. _Knowing is half the battle,_ Nadir had once told me when we'd figured out a mischievous plan of Erik's.

Erik. He'd been right when he said the world above was fit not for us. How I had fooled myself for so long that it could be boggled me. Yes, I'd trusted Jeremy. But the world of light, _his_ world, was not something I could ever be a part of.

In a fit of blind terror, I found the nearest passage and bolted down to the Lair, consumed by darkness once more. I wanted Jeremy, but I needed Erik. I wanted the light, but I was made for darkness. Two murderers; my standards were low. I had run from one potential criminal into the secret, underground Lair of another and waited to exchange the brief comforts of one for the other.

It was a long wait.

* * *

"Kitty?"

I glanced up. Erik stood in the entrance way to the bedroom. I didn't meet his eyes. My legs were drawn up to my chin, arms around them, mask on the bedside table. Erik donned his half-mask and wig, as well as a mask of confusion. His frowns these days were set so deep.

"May I sit down?"

I nodded and budged over so he could sit next to me and swing his legs up onto the bed. He stared straight ahead; I couldn't blame him, words were never his forté. In a way, his sudden change in attitude frightened as well as comforted me. Was this what Madame Giry meant when she said Erik was getting sicker and sicker? That he could be rainbows and sunshine one minute then a thunderstorm the next?

"Can I have a hug?" I mumbled, wiping my eyes quickly. He caught my hand as it brushed the burn on my cheekbone, not quick enough to stop the small trickle of blood that came from it. He sighed at my neglegence but wrapped his arm around my shoulders and drew me to his side anyhow. Tears dribbled down my cheeks as I rested my temple against his shoulder.

"What's wrong?" Erik whispered, pulling my hair free of its bun and smoothing it out.

I sniffed and tried to rub my face again. Erik only caught my hand once more and dabbed at my cheeks with his handkerchief.

"It's Jeremy."

He tensed. "Do you need me to kill him?"

 _Yes, because I need you to make me even more uncomfortable about my friends being murderers._

"I'm worried about him, Erik. I overheard him talking to Guillaume about me."

"Guillaume and Jeremy..." Erik's voice was cold and steely, which could only mean he was plotting. I hit him lightly.

"Forget that. I just need you to listen, Erik."

He nodded, folding his handkerchief with one hand and slipping it back inside his pocket. A silence settled between us. I leant a bit more against Erik's side and closed my eyes. Why was Jeremy going behind my back like this? Why the woods? How would he kill me? With a gun, perhaps? Or a knife? Maybe he'd strangle me like Erik did with the las—

 _Don't think about that_. Erik was Erik, not the Phantom. The Phantom killed people without mercy. Erik loved unconditionally. Had he not displayed such love when he danced with Christine last night?

And so did Jeremy. Funny, bumbling Jeremy, who stumbled over his own words and added titles after every sentence if he wasn't familiar with someone. He wasn't a murderer. But I hadn't thought that Erik, when he was just a boy, would kill anyone who dared cross his path the wrong way.

I snuggled further into his chest and felt him smooth out my hair with gloveless fingers.

"I think he wants to kill me," I muttered. He tensed again, his hold on my elbow tightening. His arm muscles tensed around my shoulders, digging into my back. I frowned and wriggled about. "Stop being so uptight, Erik, it hurts!"

He muttered a few apologies and gave a long, breathy sigh. "Why do you think that?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. I thought he loved me! But then I heard him talking to Guillaume du Moitiers about me. He's going to lie to Monsieur François about going to Rosiers with me on business. But he actually wants to take me to the Bois de Boulogne. The rest was just confusing. He wouldn't let Guillaume know what he wanted to do, so I didn't hear."

"I could hypnotise him tonight if you want," Erik whispered. "I can find out why he wants to go with you. What he wants to do."

I shook my head. Erik had a bad habits when it came to hypnosis and I couldn't risk him tormenting my poor Jeremy.

My poor Jeremy. But was he mine? Should I even call him poor? Sweet, gentle Jeremy. Loving Jeremy who gave his heart unconditionally and loved to make people happy. Loved to give and reap the sight of their joy.

Was he capable of killing? Surely not...

Maybe I should trust him. Jeremy was inexperienced in murder, and might hesitate. I could convince him not to touch me.

"I'll go with him," I said, squirming so I leaned against his bony chest again. Erik's breath caught in his lungs. "I just can't imagine him trying to kill me, Erik. It isn't something he would do."

 _"I've_ killed," he whispered back. "So many times. Men and women." But then he huffed an unhumoured chuckle. "But then again, monsters are known for being horrible creatures, aren't they?" He touched his mask subconsciously and retracted his hand once he found himself there. "The Living Dead cannot exactly be Prince Charming, can he? He cannot be a Desrosiers, for all he wishes it."

"Oh, stop," I groaned, lifting myself out from his hold so I sat up properly, his arm still draped over my shoulders. "No more talk of this nonsense, Erik. I still don't understand your grievance with the man. Even if he _is_ plotting my abduction and murder."

He simply rolled his eyes and toyed with the hem of his shirt. "Shall I follow you? Just to keep watch?"

I pursed my lips in thought. If Erik was there, I would certainly feel a lot safer. I would have another... _experienced_ person there to handle the situation if it got out of hand. But one wrong move, and Jeremy would be dead in moments, no questions asked.

"No, I should be fine."

"You're walking into a trap, Kitty. Are you sure you should do this without me?"

I twisted my head to look him in the eyes, half shocked to see that they held almost no compassion whatsoever, despite his tone of voice. Did he not care whether I walked out of this alive or not?

 _Christine._ Of course he wouldn't care.

"I can do this myself."

He sighed and unravelled me, getting up off the bed.

"Wait here," was all he said, before disappearing into the parlour. It didn't take long for him to return, but when he did:

"Here," Erik said, presenting me with a shimmering blade. I frowned down at it as he offered me the hilt: the metal caught the candlelight and shone onto my own hands and in the hilt lay a smooth ruby. Persian. "If I'm not there, take this instead. It won't be as... _effective_ as I, but it is effective none the less."

My breath caught. As much as I couldn't imagine Jeremy killing me, it was much harder to think of _my_ killing _him._ With shaking fingers, I took the dagger and gripped the hilt, staring at the blade as if in a trance.

"Thank you," I whispered, leaving it on the bedside cabinet. He nodded, just the once, and retreated to the entrance of my room.

"Goodnight, Nikki." He quenched the gaslamp, closed the door and left without another word, his footsteps in the parlour impossible to hear after a few seconds.

"Goodnight," I whispered in return. My head hit the pillow, forcing a sigh from my lungs without my realisation, perhaps for the last time.

Tomorrow was going to be very long or very short. I needed all the sleep I could get.


	27. Chapter 23 In the Bois Again

As the carriage jolted over the occasional rock in the road, I kept a firm hold on Erik's dagger, which I'd tucked safely away in the folds of my dress. Once or twice, Jeremy would draw breath to speak and I'd glance warily across at him. But every time, he lost his resolve and returned to looking out of the window, fidgeting with his hands.

As far as killing went, I'd seen better. Was he really planning to murder me? He was tense, biting his lip and staring blindly into the woodland, occasionally sneaking a glance at me. Not really a foreboding presence.

How would he do it? Erik strangled. Nadir had his old katana - not that I'd seen much of that lately. I knew my way around a dagger. But Jeremy? I had no idea. That was why it was so dangerous.

The nerves truly set in when he knocked on the panel. The carriage slowed to a halt. Jeremy opened the door and climbed out. I checked my skirts for the dagger, for reassurance more than anything. When I found I could pull it out at a moment's notice, my heart steadied.

Jeremy offered his hand, forcing a smile. I took it, keeping the other around my skirts. His warm hand helped me down to the ground. I swallowed; one of us wouldn't be walking away from the bois this afternoon, and I refused to be the victim of blind revenge.

A deep breath. I'd done this before. I could do it again.

We walked quite a distance, keeping to the tracks and paths worn down by hundreds of feet. Even with the sun trying to shine, the cold winds went right through me and I pulled my shawl tighter. Above our heads, within the barren tangles of branches, a choir of morning birds chirped to each other. I walked with my arm in Jeremy's, if only so I could feel his movements and counter anything he did. It also meant he didn't have a hand to spare, for in his left hand he carried a picnic basket.

"I'm sure you're wondering why I brought you here," he said as we approached the familiar little bridge in the clearing. I kept my eye on his hands when he let my arm go and knelt on the grass. He opened the basket and spread a green tartan blanket over the foliage, just beside the river bank.

So he was going to drown me? I sat on the far side of the blanket, folding my hands quite meticulously over the dagger hilt.

"The second of January _is_ a rather odd date for a picnic," I said. He blushed, moving to unpack the basket and lying on the blanket little plates of pastries, crackers, cheese, glasses and a bottle of red wine from Toulouse. He set another plate of cream buns before me with a shy smile. Poison then. I shuffled slightly.

"I know they're your favourite," he whispered, moving back to his respective side of the blanket. I forced a smile and glanced at the buns. Jeremy sat still, just watching me. By the edge of the clearing, a little grey squirrel hunted for one of his hidden nuts, awake for a short time from hibernation. I bit back a sigh.

This was the most boring murder ever.

"Papa tried to teach me to fish here," Jeremy chuckled, nodding at the river. "But of course, I ruined that by falling in."

Despite myself, I couldn't help but laugh softly at that. Jeremy turned back to me with a fake frown.

"It's not funny," he said, mocking indignance and folding his arms. "I was just fourteen and soaked to the skin!"

"Sorry," I smiled, following his previous gaze to the water, wishing my own father had taught me to fish instead of Vladimir. "He must have adored you."

"As his only son, I like to think so."

"I have no doubt of it."

Jeremy huffed a little laugh. He'd taken to gazing at a stem of grass, which he was breaking into continuous halves in his lap. "We always made good memories here. I always come here when I miss him. I can't count the number of times I've painted it; my cousin has banned me from sending him any more canvasses because they take up too much of the art gallery."

"Why don't you sell some, then? I'm sure they're very picturesque. Perhaps they'd fetch a tidy profit?"

But he simply shook his head and reached to uncork the wine bottle. "No," he said, filling the glasses and handing me one. "No, they are _my_ memories. I only share them with the people I love the most. I never even bring Guillaume here."

We fell silent for a little while longer, simply listening to the flowing stream and the birds in the trees. A little robin hopped through the grass on the other bank, searching for a worm or two below the soil. But the silences with Jeremy only ever lasted so long.

He cleared his throat. "Nikki?"

I froze, finding the dagger once more. "Yes?"

He opened his mouth again, but the breath escaped him and he looked around. Then, as if he couldn't bear to lose any more courage, he stood, holding out his hands to me. I hesitated, checking his eyes. He was nervous all of a sudden, but not angry. Not vengeful. Tentatively, I reached to him and let him pull me to my feet before him.

I held my breath, hand slipping the dagger around to the back of my dress amongst my bustle and grabbing the hilt amid the fabric. Jeremy breathed a nervous breath and searched his tailcoat pocket for something.

My thumb smoothed over the ruby. Erik had once promised me it would bring good luck to its wielder. The truth was, it had. The man I'd been targeting had fallen dead at my feet with one, well-aimed slash. I could do the same with Jeremy. I knew I could. But would I be able to?

Jeremy cleared his throat, drawing his hand from his pocket. I stiffened all over, my fingers curling around and lifting the hilt in anticipation. _Raise it_ , something told me. _Kill him now!_

"Nikki," he whispered, his voice cracked and shy. He was already blushing, not daring to meet my eyes. "The memories I've made here with Papa, I made when I was a boy. But I am a man now, and I wish to make new ones, somewhere else, with some _on_ _e_ else. It's time for me to leave that happy childhood behind and let Papa and Julianna rest now. I have an entire future ahead of me, but no one to share it with. So I want to make one, final memory here..."

I couldn't move. I simply couldn't. I could only watch as Jeremy drew a small box from his coat and sank to the ground before me, propped up one knee.

"Nikita de La Chance," he said, peering up at me, with all the vulnerability of a child. My mouth hung open as he opened it to reveal a small, if slightly familiar, diamond ring. "Will you marry me?"

The dagger slipped from my numb hand and lodged into the ground behind me.


	28. Chapter 24 The Death of Vladimir

**The account of Monsieur Erik, concerning the premature death of one Vladimir de La Chance**.

* * *

 _Vladimir,_ she'd said, when I'd reached for my lasso. _Save it for Vladimir de La Chance._

I'd made to fetch the weapon to frighten her off. Killing Desrosiers would do nothing for me, bring no satisfaction, and would only make my few allies turn their backs.

But that _name_. The way she'd screamed when she said it and ran off...

I'd frozen in my seat as she rushed out and sat there for a number of minutes, coming to terms with it.

Why was _he_ here? He must have tracked us down, and if he'd already cornered Nikki, it wouldn't be long before he showed up at the lake.

Of course, I supposed I could simply siren him into the water, rid myself of the problem there and then. But where was the fun in that? Where was the joy in seeing my revenge play out for the years of torment he put me through when I had to make sure I could breathe in the water and he couldn't?

Murder had not been on the agenda tonight, not on my to-do list unless absolutely necessary. But I grabbed the lasso, fetched my cloak and felt hat and left Monkey Nadir and Ayesha to fight over the warmth before the fire.

 _He will pay. He will pay. I will have my revenge. He will pay._

I pulled my felt hat down a bit as I made my way up through the cellars, testing the lasso between my hands.

 _He will pay. And what a debt he owes!_

I carried on, up and up towards the surface, checking to see if my black _Volto_ mask was sitting correctly; one must not look slapdash when committing murder, after all.

I found the man - if one could call him such - wandering the halls near the servants' quarters with a lit lantern to hand. He was testing each door, peering in the ones that would open and then carrying on. Looking for one of us, no doubt. To find Nikki is to find Erik, after all, and to find Erik is to find Nikki. Though as far as I was concerned, she was in the Bois with the bastard child of Luc Desrosiers, and perhaps dead, although I didn't find that entirely likely; Nikki was no stranger to ferrying people to their graves.

I pulled the lasso through my hands and followed, keeping to the shadows, waiting until he'd turned each corner to catch up. I watched and followed like that for a few minutes, just observing, noting things about his character and pace. Quick and tense. I knew the walk all too well; I'd done the exact same thing in my younger days. Clearly, he was untrained. Whoever he was searching for, he wanted to find them as soon as possible but had no experience of hunting.

Five minutes in, I grew bored of my little game and drew the lasso through my hands with a soft crack. Vladimir's head snapped up and he froze. I pressed myself back against the wall.

"Who's there?" His voice cracked as it echoed through the corridors. The light of his lantern swept towards me, gliding along the floor like an Arabian sunrise. I pulled my cloak around myself and chuckled. "Show yourself, man! Why are you hiding back there?"

I heard him take a cautious step in my direction, followed by another, then another, the floorboards creaking as he made his slow advancements. I pulled my felt hat over my face a little more and stepped out into the candlelight.

The lantern lowered as he breathed a sigh. "Monsieur! You gave me quite the fright! Why, I was almost tempted to believe in the Opera G-"

I lifted my head, inches at a time, and caught his eye. He sucked in a breath, eyes wide. The lantern fell to the ground. The glass cracked.

"No..."

"Bonsoir, Vladimir," I said in a low voice, muffled slightly by the mask covering my lips. He backed away, finding the wall behind him with his hands. His eyes never left my mask.

"Pierre-"

He didn't have time to yelp as I lunged, catching him by the neck. It came out as a strangled gurgle. I lifted him from the floor, pinning him back against the wall, knocking whatever breath he had left from his lungs. He kicked against me, gripping my leather glove with both hands, staring into my eyes in blind terror. I chuckled and felt a shiver run through his spine.

"How the tides have turned, Vladimir!"

"Let me go," he spluttered, turning a slightly lilac colour. The sight sent a surge of adrenaline through my veins. With a grin, I squeezed a little tighter.

"Whenever did you let _me_ go?"

"Pierre-"

Another squeeze. He choked, gripping my hand tighter and turning a deep purple quite rapidly. His eyes rolled slightly. I hushed him.

"Now, now. We mustn't wake the servants, must we, Vlad? Busy day tomorrow, all that cleaning and whatnot. I'm sure Nikita will be very disappointed in you if she can't stay awake at work because you made a commotion."

"What... what do you..." He tried to swallow, but choked again and kicked the wall. My other fingers twitched, aching to wrap around his throat, to squeeze the life from him and see those light grey eyes go out like a candle.

 _But not yet._ I'd waited twenty-five years for this night. I'd enjoy every minute of it.

"What do you want?"

A sly smile crept across my lips, the effect somewhat numbed by the mask. But still, he saw my eyes as they narrowed and his own went alarmingly wide again. In one, quick movement, I let him drop to the ground. He clutched his throat and gasped for air.

"Go on," I purred, winding the catgut around my hands. "Erik will give you a headstart. Just like you always gave him before you chased after him in the woods with the other boys."

He froze on the floor. I imagined he'd cry out and beg forgiveness as the hunter became the hunted. But, to my glee, he scrambled to his feet and sprinted into the dim hallways without his lantern.

Another rush of adrenaline; it was the rosy hours of Mazenderan all over again. I would relish in every moment.

As Vladimir disappeared into the shadows, I took a different path, out through a secret exit rather near the Rue Scribe gate, keeping the swishing of my cape to a minimum. The cold, January night kept prying eyes averted as I slipped through the darkness and hid in the shadows by the front doors. Any moment now...

The doors flew open. Vladimir stumbled out, panting like a foxhound. He doubled over, trying to catch his breath.

My heart beat like a hundred drums. Adrenaline, ecstasy and a sharp need, a stab of anticipation, coursed through my blood. I took a deep breath to steady myself; I hadn't felt this alive since I'd killed Buquet. How I'd missed the rush that murder brings!

Vladimir straightened. I seized my chance. Three long strides were all it took.

He spotted me a fraction of a second too late. The lasso whistled through the air. Vladimir screamed. I tugged, giving a cry of delight when he hit the ground like a brick, kicking and writhing for his life at last. My smile only grew. I knelt by his side, turning his face to mine. With one hand keeping the lasso tight and turning him purple once more, I raised the other to my mask slipping it off and simply watching.

With a face like a grape, Vladimir spluttered at the sight before his eyes.

"What's wrong?" I purred, forcing his gaze back to my face when he tried to turn away to gag. "You used to love pulling Erik's mask off and laughing. Why so silent now? Have I not become more handsome with age?"

An irony struck me and I couldn't help but throw my head back and laugh. "I am Don Juan! You hear that, Vlad? I am Don Juan Triumphant, aren't I? Erik is very handsome, you know! The Sultana of Persia once remarked that he had the face of a celestial being, you hear? Ah yes! Erik is a sort of Don Juan of the Underworld! Ah, Vladimir! How can you know my good looks if you keep turning away? You never used to do that."

All the while, I'd been tightening the noose, and all the while, he'd been growing quieter and quieter.

"Pierre-" he mumbled, his hand falling from the lasso and resting on the frosty stone.

"Game," I snarled, lowering my face to his. His everyday joke from twenty years ago would be the last thing he'd see, I'd sworn that. "Set."

I yanked the lasso. _Snap!_ His eyes stared into the street, frozen in terror forever. I stood, uncoiling the catgut and tucking it back into my cloak.

"Match."

 _Alive._

 _Free._

 _Power._

I was invincible.

The managers got quite the shock early the next morning to find one of their guests slumped at their table in the office.


	29. Chapter 25 So Unhappy in Love

**"Are people so unhappy when they are in love?"**

 **"Yes, Christine, when they love and are not sure of being loved in return."**

 ** _Raoul and Christine._**

 _ **Gaston Leroux, The Phantom of the Opera**_

 _ **I'm sorry for being so evil and ending the last Nikki chapter where I did!**_

* * *

For two whole minutes, neither of us spoke. Neither of us moved. Jeremy stayed on his knee before me. The ring caught the light every so often and the little diamonds would cast faint rainbows on the blanket in the patchy sunlight.

"Nikki..." he murmured at last. His eyes hadn't left mine all this time.

Everything within me had sunk, even more than when Erik had disgraced himself, more than any time I'd killed for our protection, more than when _les gendarmes_ or the constable or, damn it all, _Vladimir_ had caught me. What could I say to a proposal of marriage? It wasn't as if I'd rehearsed for this.

I knew Jeremy would be hurt if I said no. But was it fairer than roping him into my life of phantoms and shadows?

Flushing, I hurried to retrieve the dagger and slipped it back into my dress, out of his line of sight.

"Nikki? Are you alright?"

I stood properly, folding my arms nervously. "I... Jeremy, I-"

"It's alright to say no," he said, standing slowly. "I won't mind."

But his voice suggested otherwise and he didn't meet my gaze when I looked back up at him. He made to put the ring back in his pocket. My heart clenched. Hardly in control of myself, I caught his arm. He looked up at me in shock, his hair falling forwards.

In that moment of hesitation, I stepped up on my toes and kissed his parted lips. He hesitated for a moment, before relaxing slightly and letting me kiss him gently. I pulled away, but his eyes stayed closed, as if he wished to stay in a fantasy world of my affection, fluttering open after a few drawn out seconds.

"I'm not saying no," I whispered, laying a hand on his cheek and stroking his hair back with the other. His hands found my waist.

"But you're not saying yes either," he said, meeting my eyes again.

I shook my head. "I need time to... to think."

"I understand." He stepped back, retracting his hands to cradle the box. I put a hand over his and kissed his cheek. Were people so unhappy in love?

* * *

The carriage jolted over the outlying stones in the road. I stared out of the window, the dagger hidden away once more. Jeremy was fiddling with the little, red satin box, visibly trying not to cry, though once or twice a diamond tear would splash onto his hands.

As we reached the very outskirts of the city, where the houses began to cluster together and filled with people, he spoke.

"It was my mother's..." he murmured, admiring the diamonds. I watched him, already feeling the shame rise in me. Jeremy didn't look up. "She always wore this. I was working with Papa when she died. He went back to bury her, and when he returned to the Opera House, he had this with him."

His voice cracked, but he swallowed and carried on. "I never went home. Even after Papa was killed, I just stayed in my apartment and went to work, and out to Rosiers for a week or two in the summer as usual."

I tried to shake the heaviness in my chest with a deep breath. Jeremy, assuming I was going to say something, looked up.

"What about Julianna?" I asked, if only not to disappoint him with silence. He huffed, but the smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

"She wore this too. I remember she used to hold it up to the light and watch it sparkle. She once promised our one day daughter would wear it in her place." The thought did nothing to comfort me. I looked back out of the window. "But then Papa brought it back to me when she went missing. It was left on his pillow in the apartment, next to a note from the Ghost. I never gave it to anyone else."

"I'm sorry, Jeremy," I whispered. As the carriage rolled and bumped along, I managed to cross over to sit beside him. "Just... give me some time."

"And will you say yes at the end of it all? Don't play with my heart, Nikki, I beg you. It's been broken enough."

I would have called him selfish there and then if he hadn't looked at me with such sincerity and trust. He was, as difficult as it was to admit it, in love with me. Was it I who was being selfish? Just a few hours ago I'd thought he'd meant to kill me, only for him to prove me totally wrong with an offer that tempted the very depths of my soul.

I put my hand on his and took the ring.

"I will wear it," I whispered. Jeremy drew a sharp breath as I pulled my glove off. "I shall wear it on my hand until we get back, and then find a neck chain for it."

That did it. Jeremy burst into tears as I slid the ring onto my finger. He clutched me to his side, weeping into my hair and muttering choked _'Thank you!'_ s over and over again.

I pulled away and wiped his cheeks with my handkerchief, letting him kiss me when he retrieved control of his breathing.

I would wear it around my neck for our safety. God only knew what Erik would say, _do_ , if he realised I was engaged and not killed; Christine had been bad enough. I couldn't risk it, especially not Jeremy.

I sat quietly for the rest of the journey, just thinking and studying the wedding ring. I was someone's fiancée, and what's more, I was _Jeremy's_ fiancée.

 _Bride. Wife. Potential mother._ I'd feared those ideas for so long. But now, despite myself, surges of delighted butterflies fluttered around in my stomach, dancing in my blood and making me shiver slightly when Jeremy pulled me against him just a fraction tighter. With the evening turning to night over Paris, Jeremy knocked on the panel behind him and called for the carriage to stop.

"I thought we might take a short walk before it gets too dark." Jeremy helped me out and replaced his top hat on his head and picked up the empty picnic basket. He offered me his arm beneath his overcoat, eyes shimmering in the winter sunset hues.

We walked in silence, listening to each other's' footsteps and the noises of the Parisian nightlife awakening. I kept my hand tucked in Jeremy's arm as we neared the Pont Royal, smiling as the familiar rush of the Seine grew louder with every step and the air thickened with the smell of silt. We walked on until we came to the halfway point and looked over into the river below, this time with no cat to spoil the outing.

"Do you like it in Paris?" I asked as Jeremy dropped some pebbles into the water with little _plop_ s! He hesitated in letting one go for just a moment.

"It's not Rosiers," he said cautiously, "and yet I miss it when I go away. Does that make sense?"

Oh, sweet irony. I shrugged. "I'm not particularly used to staying in one place for more than a couple of years."

"Mama wasn't either," Jeremy smiled. "In fact, she was never too happy in Rouen. I saw her crying more than once. She always wanted to leave; Papa said she simply wanted to see the world."

"Perhaps that's my problem."

"I'd call it one's nature. It is as much a part of us as our arm or leg. Like love, really."

"But one can lose their arm or leg in an accident," I remarked. "One cannot really lose love."

"It depends on the sort of love, whether it can be numbed with time or simply kills us when it's taken away." He stepped slightly closer to me and when I looked up at him, the green of his eyes reflected the water and also seemed to capture the sunset in little flickers of gold. I let my head fall onto his shoulder, able to clearly remember a time when I would have laughed at the very idea of my care for someone.

"So it was your mother's?" I fiddled with the ring and he nodded, lifting my hand so the diamonds could catch the saffron and golds of the sunset. He smiled and pressed a kiss to my hair, his arm never loosening its snug hold around my shoulders. With his other hand, he drew a little, wooden, oval picture frame from his inner coat pocket and held it out before us.

"This is her." The woman in the portrait looked so regal, almost familiarly so, as if I should curtsey even to her picture. Dark hair fell in tightly curled ringlets down her back and over her shoulders. Her face was pinched and stern, her nose long and straight. She sat similarly, her hands folded in her lap as she looked past the easel. Her dress hugged her corset, the neckline dipping to reveal a conservative amount of her chest.

"You have her eyes," I smiled. But he shook his head, closed the lid and tucked it away again.

"I look like my father, every bit the Desrosiers man. I have his build, hair, face and green eyes. My mother's eyes glowed like fire."

"Desrosiers men must all be very handsome then."

He chuckled. "Some are less fortunate than others."

"Are you sure we didn't meet in Rouen? Even without knowing it?"

"No," he laughed, ruffling my hair and cuddling me close. "I would remember a mask like yours!"

Between the tightness of his arms and my corset, I spluttered. "I never wore a mask there! Only once I left did I use one!"

He frowned. "Why?"

"Because... because sometimes, bad things happen to good people."

His grip loosened. He looked out into the river, quiet and reserved all of a sudden. "Were you... were you hurt? In Rouen? When the house burned?"

 _Yes._ I remembered Erik's face when we fled the burning house, the look of horror he wore on his open mouth not truly masking the glee in his eyes behind the charred mask, the rush of ecstasy burning it down had brought. He had hurt me that night, more than the fresh burns that covered my face, that would force me into a porcelain cage ever could. He had been but nine years old.

"I have forgiven the hurt I have been caused," I said, squeezing his hand. He looked down at our interlocked fingers, running his thumb over the back of my glove. "Let's not speak of Rouen anymore. Tell me once again about Rosiers-sur-Garonne."

We stood there on the Pont Royal for some time, until night had fallen upon Paris and the bells of Notre Dame chimed seven o'clock. As Jeremy walked me back through the streets to the Opera House, a ten-minute walk away, I noticed how he kept pace with me, even when I purposefully walked a half-pace faster or slower.

Who could ever have dreamed of this? That I, of all people, would be on the arm of someone I'd managed to find a particular fondness for? Yes, someone truly wonderful had granted me such a rare gift.


	30. Chapter 26 Masks of Gaeity

**"None will ever be a true Parisian who has not learned to wear a mask of gaiety over his sorrows and one of sadness, boredom, or indifference over his inward joy."**

 **~ Gaston Leroux, The Phantom of the Opera.**

* * *

A ploom of dust flew into my unmasked face from a cupboard. I choked on the particles that went down my throat. Spluttering, I backed away, batting the air and coughing into my glove. It _would_ be me who got the dusty old costume department to clean out; Firmin had ordered a record of every salvageable thing in here, all costumes, all props, everything, all in a bid to cut some expenditures. In my absence, I'd been nominated and had spent the entire day up to my neck in dust and shadows, which made it all the more impossible to tell the time. I could only assume that night had fallen by now.

I coughed again and fought my way back to the cupboard. Half convinced something would bite my arm off, half genuinely wondering what secrets the shadows held, I reached into the darkness.

My hand touched something creased and fabricy. I tensed. At least it wasn't a plague of tarantulas or snakes. Another cloud of dust swept into the room as I pulled the heavy item from its hanger and out into the dim candlelight, setting it on a workbench I'd cleared.

I picked up my pen to make another note of inventory, smoothing the fabric of the dress with the other hand.

 _Violetta's gown, Act One_  
 _La Traviata, 1860_  
 _Giuseppe Verdi._

I took another look at the dress, imagining Carlotta, in her younger years, parading it around the stage. This dress had seen such glory before, had been a marvel of embroidery and dressmaking. Now it simply lay limp and heavy, spoilt with dust in a forgotten corner of the Opera House, and, for some reason, that put more of a damper on my mood than before.

I stifled a sigh and reached to stroke the few remaining sequins that would once have caught the light of gaslamps and shone for all the audience to see.

" _Addio, del passato bei sogni ridenti."_

I jumped, looked over my shoulder at the voice and groaned, turning back to the dress. "I should have known it would be you."

"Unless someone else with such an extensive and, dare I say, impressive knowledge of opera walked in through the passage behind the wall, it could only have been your humble, resident Ghost." Erik walked towards me and set his own lantern on the bench next to mine. "Have you drawn the short straw?"

"It was drawn for me."

"Typical. And it's two in the morning."

I groaned, wanting nothing more than to collapse and just sleep, even amid all the dust. "Firmin wants this place clear by midday, and then I'm meant to go back to scrubbing the floors by the dance foyer."

"Did you do it?"

"Do what? Tidy up? What does it _look_ like?"

"Kill Desrosiers."

I froze. The ink began to blotch the paper and I lifted the pen. "No."

"Why not?"

"There was no reason to," I shrugged. "I left your dagger by the piano forte."

"I saw it alright." He leaned against the bench and folded his arms. "The state in which I found it indicated it had not been used. I came to look for you."

"I suppose I should be grateful. Am I allowed back in the House now?"

He traced something into the dust on the table with a light smile. "I'll think about it."

 _Aha! Victory!_ "What did you get up to while I was away?"

He looked up, seemingly from staring at my neck, mouth pressed into a line. _The ring._ I clenched my fists, praying he hadn't seen it somehow.

"Composing," he said at last.

"But I thought _Don Juan_ _—_ "

"I can work on more than one piece in my life, Kitty. One must pass one's time somehow until one's pride and joy is premiered to the country. Like a lady at court, really."

"As long as no one was hurt," I said, starting back to the cupboard to search for anything else that might be hiding there. Amid the shadows, I pushed the ring down below my chemise and out of sight. I pulled a top hat from the depths of the cupboard and flipped it through my hands, grinning. "Catch!"

I tossed it, rather like a flying disk, and Erik caught it in one, quick swipe, placing it atop his head without a second thought and striking a ridiculous pose with the walking cane I'd found earlier.

"Careful," I laughed, almost doubling over when he threw a smoulder my way and continued to strut along the dirty floor. "There could be spiders in that. You'll have crawling hair for days!"

"I don't particularly mind," he said. "I like spiders, really."

I shivered and returned to clearing out the cupboard, kneeling and leaning in as far as I could to reach the furthest points. "That makes one of us."

He grunted, abandoning the cane, and sorted through a libretto I'd found on the floor, humming away at certain parts and scoffing at others.

"No wonder they didn't put this thing on," he muttered, tossing it aside. "How was this non-murdersome picnic then? If you didn't end up stabbing your host?"

"We talked," I said, still half buried in the shadows. "He told me about Rosiers and his father—"

"There's a surprise."

"Don't be like that; as hard as it is for you to understand, I enjoyed myself. Jeremy was a proper gentleman."

"You're correct," he said, removing the top hat and leaving it on the bench. He started towards the wall. "I truly don't. Not you, not Desrosiers, not even Erik sometimes."

I rolled my eyes and didn't give him the satisfaction of watching him leave.

"You didn't..." He paused on the threshold of the tunnel and sighed, leaning against it with one, gloved hand. The cape swished softly against the floor, where the wooden boards turned to cold stone.

"Didn't what?" I murmured, adding a feathery hat to my list.

"You didn't tell Jeremy about me, did you? You didn't say anything about my mask or my face? Or tell him about me in general?"

"No." I frowned up at him. "Why?"

He hesitated for a second, looking down at the table as not to meet my eyes.

"No reason," he said. And with that, he disappeared into the darkness.

* * *

I didn't hear from Erik for the rest of the night, or the next morning and afternoon, but I did happen to briefly hear a few rumours of a murder. I didn't listen too closely; I'd just have to take it up with him later. But, as always, they seemed to make their way back to me.

"Mademoiselle de La Chance?"

I looked up at the girl from where I was kneeling. Hair fell back into my eyes as I met hers; I wasn't too fond of this new mask anymore, and blew the strands back, my hands full with the cloth I was scrubbing with. I knew this child — I'd seen Madame Giry yelling at her on more than one occasion for not pirouetting correctly.

"Yes, Clarisse?" I asked dryly, abandoning the cloth to retie my hair and fix my mask.

"Claude said he heard you talking in the old costume department last night. With a man."

I glanced at the boy in question, standing and snickering with his dance group, his arms folded across his chest. He caught my eye with a smirk.

"He did?" I mused, resuming my work on the floor, scrubbing away at the arrogant dirt marks until they faded and the tiles shone. "With a man, you say?"

"Yes," Clarisse replied, nudging my wash basin with her pointy little shoe. "You wouldn't have been... _busy_ this morning, would you?"

I shrugged. "It depends."

"Depends?"

"Was he fair of face?" I smirked, glancing at Claude. He frowned, shuffling on his heels and glancing at the others.

"I didn't actually _see_ him, Mademoiselle," he muttered. "But I heard him. I heard you both."

"Claude, was Clarisse with you?" I stood, letting my cloth drop into the bucket. His eyes flickered to the young lady and he pocketed his hands, shifting again.

"Yes."

"And you were both here when you heard me in the old costume department?"

"Yes." He backed up and it took all I had not to smirk at his retreats.

"How ironic! You are so easily pulled apart."

Little giggles arose from the troop. Clarisse blushed. Claude gulped. I grinned.

"You should learn to keep your tongue still," I said, walking up the Grand Escalier. "Keep your nose to your face and your _petit bi_ _—_ Madame Giry!"

I stopped short before I could crash into her on the stairs, and the warm water sloshed over the sides of the bucket onto my hands. She glowered down at me. "What a pleasant surprise, Madame! I was just about to—"

"Scatter," she called down to her dancers. "And please, Claude, Clarisse, do not abandon propriety! This is a polite opera house."

 _A polite,_ haunted _opera house._ I bit my tongue.

I had seen plenty of patrons with little ballerinas on their arms before.

Madame Giry regarded me with a dry look. "If I find you getting Erik into any more trouble than he already is—"

"Don't worry, Madame!" I smiled, shifting the bucket in my arms. "Everything is perfectly fine. I have him under control this time!"

But she scoffed, as if unable to believe I'd said such a thing. "Murder is not 'perfectly fine', Nikki!"

"But it's just a rumour—"

"Rumour my foot!" she cried, grabbing my bucket from my arms.

I screamed as she poured the whole lot over my head.

* * *

"Well, well," Erik purred as I stormed down the portcullis passageway into the parlour. I shot him a cold glare and stormed past the organ, whipping my ruined, soaked hair at him, splattering his newest music. "Look what the cat dragged in! No cream left for you, Kitty?"

"Go to hell," I snarled, marching up the stone steps to my bedroom. "But first, be of use and tell me where the towels are!"

He shrugged, wiping the paper gently. "Wherever you left them after tidying so radically."

"You can't blame me for that! It's like a pigsty! Erik, we're living in our own filth!" Looking around, I pulled a face. Yet more clothes and music had gathered on the floor. "I want a raise in my salary. It isn't enough, not when you leave the place like this every day!"

"You're not being paid to tidy the house," he muttered over his hand, which rested against his chin in a fist as he stared blankly at the score of music. "Just the top."

"Which is exactly why I want more money," I snapped, clawing my way through the clothes in one of the cupboards. "Erik, where are all those towels I folded?"

"As I said before, wherever you left them."

"I put them _here!"_ I whined, slamming the cupboard shut. "You'll just have to lend me some of yours!"

He scoffed. "I only have a limited supply, you know!"

"It wouldn't be so 'limited' if you just washed them instead of leaving them lying about the place! I'm surprised no one has found a sock in the middle of the stage yet!"

He sighed, rising from his chair at last. "It's a wonder I haven't been driven to insanity."

He strode over to where I was leaning against the door frame and scowling, his shoes clacking against the stone. Taking me by the arm, he deposited me on the bed, turning away to search the ottoman himself.

"Here you are: one fresh, unused towel," he said, standing and turning to sit beside me. Despite its age, the mattress barely creaked beneath his weight. "Mask."

With a huff, I took it off and let him dab at my face, wiping away the now-freezing water and strands of hair that clung to my skin. I turned away and he towelled down my hair, brushing through the drying mats with needle-like fingers.

It was only a few minutes later that one of us spoke.

"Who did this?" he whispered, his voice suddenly right behind my ear. His warm breath tickled my neck and I only just stopped myself from shivering. Was this how he acted around Christine? "I could kill them for you if you want."

I pushed him away, my scowl, against my resolve to be furious, fading fast. "Don't bother. It was just Madame Giry; Claude Jacques overheard our conversation last night and assumed I had a gentleman to swoon over."

"You do!" he cried teasingly, wrapping his arms around my chest and dragging me back into his chest with a laugh. His cold cheek rested against my damp hair and he rocked us back and forth. "You have the most swoon-worthy gentleman possible!"

I frowned for a moment. Erik would never say something like that. Was he alright?

Had Christine been down here again?

"I suppose you're right," I grinned. "Jeremy is actually very swoon-worthy!"

Was it even possible to feel so safe in the arms of someone so dangerous? Possible to be so protected in the embrace of someone living on the very edges of sanity? And he was. Erik was a dangerous man, ready to tip into the void of endless torment and darkness.

Or rather, the Phantom was, and he would drag Erik down with him.

Erik sprang to his feet, his shirt was damp, and swore under his breath.

"Fop," he muttered. "Fop!"

"Keep going and you'll write another opera," I grinned, getting up and stepping across the room to a set of drawers to find a new shirt and loose pantaloons. "Maybe Carlotta could sing it for you for Raoul. Speaking of which, how _is_ Christine?"

Erik's eyes lit up. "Christine!"

He fled the room, letting the door bounce on its hinges on the way out.

I rolled my eyes and pulled the old screen out to change behind.

Erik's shirt was a cool, welcome relief. With my skin itching from the drying water, I snuggled deeper into the fabric, pulling it up around my neck and trying not to breathe in the smell of death. I pulled on and buckled a pair of slacks, disregarding the thought of the looks he might shoot me if I walked into the parlour wearing such things.

Pushing the screen back, I flopped back onto the bed. For a moment, I considered staying there like that: relaxed and comfortable, if slightly damp from the evening and wearing men's clothes that were much too large, despite Erik's slender frame.

Peeling my wet mask from the sheets beside me, I traced the lines of the happy eyebrows I had painted on and then felt my own skin, where there were none, where it wasn't smooth, but jagged and dry, scarred into lines and patches. I listened to Erik singing as he bustled about in the parlour and closed my eyes, allowing his voice to pull me into a trance like a lullaby, rocking me back and forth in the arms of my mind with every note. For one, brief moment, I was in bliss.

And then that moment shattered, for Christine arrived to visit Erik, just as she'd promised.


	31. Chapter 27 Quite Hopelessly Lost

" _One can get quite hopelessly lost if one does not know the path."_

 **~ Erik Carriére (Charles Dance)**

 **Arthur Kopit, The Phantom of the Opera (1990)**

* * *

If the tapping of my pen against the edge of my writing desk was annoying Erik, he wasn't saying anything about it.

I still wasn't completely happy with the fact that Christine had come back last night, especially with news that the ballerinas were wild with stories of dangerous murderers and phantoms. Erik had tensed and glanced in my direction, and when I'd frowned he'd taken Christine's hand and changed the subject, insisting she sing for him, just for a little while.

Even after she had long since left, an air of silence remained. We both sat - I awkwardly and maskless, Erik quite happily and masked - composing. Or at least, I was _trying_ to. I eyed my violin under the table, wishing a rush of music would just slap me right in the face so I could write it out.

"Why so tense?" I jumped at Erik's voice, knocked from racking my brains, and caught him watching me curiously from the other side of the organ.

"No reason," I replied, hunching over my blank pages and gnawing at my lip again.

"No one will want to kiss you if you have chapped lips, Nikki."

I resisted the urge to point out that I, at least, had lips to kiss with.

But as I ran my hands through my hair, free from its usual tight bun and sprawled over my shoulders and back, and sighed, Erik only glanced up more often, regarding me for longer periods each time.

"Shall we go for a walk?" he said at last.

I stared over the organ at him. "Since when did the Phantom of the Opera go for a walk? Do you mean to take a turn with me about the room?"

But he was already on his feet, bundling his music on top of the instrument with a knowing grin. I watched with an open mouth as he pulled on a tailcoat and moved to the little cupboard in the wall behind me, which he'd fashioned into a cloakroom. His hand paused over a top hat.

"Hat, do you think?" His sudden attitude of a gentleman, enough to rival Raoul or Jeremy, left me speechless. "Kitty?"

I snapped myself out of the shock to watch as he put it on anyhow. Did Erik have a fever suddenly? Was he quite well?

"I know a place in the woods," he was saying, putting the hat on regardless, pacing back into the parlour and around the instrument to my little nest where I had burrowed myself against the wall. He beamed as he offered me his hand, even more so when I gingerly took it, and pulled me to my feet. "It's pure peace and quiet there. No one need find us."

Taking my astounded silence as an agreement, Erik smiled, taking off his mask. "I shan't wear this, but you needn't feel pressured to take yours off." _Pressured?_ It was Sunday, and I hadn't been planning to go anywhere anyhow. Why would I need my mask in the first place?

"Erik," I began as slowly as I dared, following him as he walked out to the hallway and down to a door I'd never been through and never found unlocked. Even in my own home, Erik had banned me from certain rooms, a Bluebeard to his wife. "Are you feeling alright?"

He continued to smile just as broadly as he looked over his shoulder at me and drew me to his side, unlocking the door. "Absolutely! I couldn't be happier, even!"

The loneliness must have finally got the better of him. That or the smell down here.

* * *

"Long ago, before I planted all of this," Erik told me in a fairytale voice as he led me on through the dark branches and fake grass of the forest, "there were only endless, dreary vaults down here. No life at all. And no love."

I hid my discomfort as he turned to gaze at me.

"No loving kindness. Are you warm enough?"

Was I? I glanced at my goose-skin arms. Nope!

"Yes, Erik, I'm fine," I smiled, squeezing his hand with a terribly fake smile. "You wanted to show me something?"

"Indeed!" His eyes lit up and we carried on, stepping lightly over a few branches and other foliage. "We will go to the most enchanted place I know of!" That was it. He was insane. I couldn't doubt it any longer.

"It's the one place I can truly think, can listen to the music in my mind."

"Well, whatever keeps you from killing people, I suppose," I muttered, keeping my eyes on the floor so I didn't trip.

"I'm sorry, dear?" he asked, turning again and knitting his forehead into lines. _Dear?_ I shook my head, mainly to free myself of the shock, and stepped a long stride so I stood beside him, unable to take my arm from his suddenly.

"Nothing, Erik. Come, show me where we'll have our enchanted picnic then."

Where, in the name of Erik's sanity and mine, was Nadir Khan when you needed him?

Erik smiled and walked ahead a little way, always stopping and turning back to me so I could catch up. He hopped down a little embankment, which was alright for him and his long legs, unrestrained by a tight corset. I brushed my hair back, studying the jump. One foot went down to a ridge in the 'soil', and then the other to an outlying root.

Something beneath me crumbled and I yelped. Erik was there in less than a moment, catching me before I could hit the ground. He smiled again and held me closer, ignoring my little wriggles as I squirmed for freedom.

When at last he set me down after a short walk towards a little cluster of trees, he kissed my hand.

 _Jeremy._

I imagined the look of hurt in his eyes and pulled my hand away from Erik, opting to smooth out my dress instead. He rubbed his mouth, slightly confused at my brashness.

"Thank you, Erik."

The smile on his lips only grew, shifting his mask until it sat lopsided on his skin, showing some of his deformity.

"I'll fetch the picnic basket," he said, taking off his tailcoat and wrapping it around my shoulders. "Be a good girl for me and don't wander off." He tapped my masked nose gently and chuckled, then turned away and went back to fetch the basket.

I pulled a face and wiped my hand against my dress. My fingers brushed over something in the coat pocket. I froze.

Shoving my hand into the pocket, I felt about until my fingertips met something cold and round. I pulled it out. My engagement ring. I shut my mouth before I could cry out in shock. How on earth had he got that from my finger without me realising?

Whatever was going on, I didn't like it, not one bit.

That ring was on my finger two minutes ago. Why would Erik sneak it off? Why would he put it in the pocket of the tailcoat he'd given me? And all these pet names, for goodness sakes!

Just... _why?_

" _Sur le pont d'Avignon,_  
 _On y danse, on y danse._  
 _Sur le pont d'Avignon,_  
 _On y danse tous en round!"_

As a rush of chill swept up my spine, I shoved the ring back into Erik's pocket and pretended to admire a tree. Erik appeared from the trees carrying the basket, singing and smiling.

 _"Les beaux messieurs font comme ça,_  
 _Et puis encore comme ça!"_ he sang, leaving the basket on the floor and bowing to me. He tipped his hat and, obviously not noticing my confusion, strode forwards and took me up, smiling at every word of the refrain until it was over and he let me go.

 _"Les belles dames font comme ça_  
 _Et puis... encore..._ Kitty? Why aren't you dancing?"

I bit my lip and shrugged off the tailcoat, offering its return. But the smile fell from Erik's face and he frowned instead, turning his hand up at it.

"Don't you remember the song? It was our favourite."

"I remember it, Erik."

"Well then?"

I sighed in the silence of the 'woods' and curtsied awkwardly. Erik broke out into a rash of smiles again and took me by the waist and hand, leading me around again in circles.

Erik sang four or five nursery rhymes as we danced amongst the trees. He was just beginning the sixth one when I stopped him.

"Shall we have our picnic now, Erik?"

"Of course!" he said, clapping in glee. "Come over here! This is the perfect spot!"

And with that, he set the picnic basket at the foot of a tree and spread his cloak on the ground.

"Please, sit down!"

I tried. Truly, I did. But everything was confusing all of a sudden: my feet froze to the floor, my mind told me to run and run fast, in the opposite direction, and my heart told me to sit beside Erik and be a good little lady. So did my manners.

One should never disobey their heart, Papa always said. Or their good manners, Matushka usually chimed in, glaring at me until I stopped playing my screechy violin for our visitors.

"This place truly is magical," Erik sighed, smiling dreamily at the scenery. I fidgeted on the cloak. He looked back and I stilled, folding my hands politely. His eyes narrowed at me, not in spite as much as curiosity. I plastered a smile I hoped wasn't too obviously fake over my bare lips. "You are magical too, Nikki, just like the music in my mind."

I wasn't sure where this was going, but I couldn't just leave. I couldn't get up and go.

Why? Why couldn't I? What was wrong with saying "Listen, Erik, I really don't like this, so pray give me my ring back and I shall see you later,"? What was I suddenly so afraid of? It was just _Erik_. But again the rumours of an unidentified man found dead in the managers' office sprang to mind, and the words Madame Giry had uttered just before her cruel trick:

 _'Rumour' my foot._

He took a bottle of wine from the basket along with two glasses and filled them with the dark, blood-red liquid. "You belong here, with the magic. It might run out if you aren't."

My breath caught, as if Erik had shoved the bottle cork down my throat.

"I don't know what you mean," I replied, keeping my voice even and taking the glass of wine. "You are forgetting yourself, Erik."

"No, I'm not!" he said, jumping towards me on his hands and knees, a hopeful, almost childish wonder in his eyes. I leaned away. "Magic is my friend. Magic cannot hide from me, Kitty. You belong with magic. You belong _here_."

He closed his eyes and everything went silent. I shifted on the cloak, glancing about uneasily and taking a sip of my wine.

It was, annoyingly, some of the best wine I'd ever tasted. The glass clinked against my teeth quite loudly. "Erik? Can I ask you some-"

"Hush!" Erik said sharply, holding a hand right before my face without opening his eyes. "The morning birds... huh. Pheasant too, I hear! And deer."

He opened his eyes and smiled lazily at the fake animals. I took a great gulp of wine.

"Erik, it's about a rumour of mur-"

Something snapped, and so did our heads in that direction. Something, some _one,_ whiffled behind a bush. Erik's ears pricked.

"Er-"

He raised his hand again, this time to cover my lips with one finger, and caught my eye. The relaxed, laziness was gone. His amber eyes glowed, searching, hunting, until he concentrated on one particular spot and stood without a noise, drawing the lasso from his person.

"Erik, I mean-"

He shushed me again with a glare. "Stay here," he muttered, his voice right beside my ear where he was not. And just like that, he was gone. I huddled into the jacket.

 _Please don't be Jeremy, please don't be Jeremy, please don't be-_

I didn't need to worry. Jeremy did not have a girl's scream - at least, I didn't think so.

The ballerina shot forwards from the bushes straight towards me, screaming with every step. I cried out with her as Erik dashed after her, his face monstrous enough to make anyone take fright.

She gasped and tripped over her own long legs, trying to crawl towards me. I shuffled back on my hands. What in God's-

Erik pounced.

The girl screamed again.

"Erik!" I shouted, pushing myself up from the blanket, though my knees shook to and fro and my heart felt ready to jump right out of my throat. The ballerina caught my gaze, her eyes wide and darting about for safety. "Stop it, Erik!"

He dragged the girl to her feet, ignoring my protests.

 _Work, legs, work! Damn you, disobedient limbs! Damn you to hell!_

"Erik, for God's sakes, man!"

Finally, he looked at me, his forehead creased. The ballerina shot out of his grip, still screaming and still with tears running down her face, blinding her until she couldn't see anymore, until she-

Erik leapt up from the ground like a cat, catching the struggling girl to his chest. She fought against him like a wild animal, clawing and screeching. The lasso shot forth like a bolt of lightning, catching around her neck.

A snap.

The girl's screams died.

 _"_ _Erik!"_ I cried, forcing myself to move from the cloak. "Erik, _no! Please_ , no-"

Erik, yes.

He lowered her to the ground and knelt at her side, clutching his chest and staring at her like she was a textbook to be studied. A trickle of crimson leaked through his fingers. Not, as I first thought, the girl's blood.

I screamed again and stumbled back over my own feet.

The ballerina stared back at me, a few stray tears still rolling down her cheeks. She was a pretty little thing, graced with the beauty I'd never possessed, even before the fire in Rouen.

The only thing I beat her at was that I didn't have a length of catgut around my neck. Nor had I stopped breathing.

Not permanently, anyhow.

My legs went beneath me. Erik didn't even look over as I toppled to the floor.

"Help her, you idiot!" I cried, unable to move and shaking like a tree in an earthquake. "For heaven's sakes, Erik. Get that child up! Revive her! Do _something_!"

But he shook his head. "She's dead."

That was when my world went dark. I fell back onto the grassy ground, heaving breaths like a desperate woman. The feeling of being choked was back, like fingers squeezing my neck.

"You selfish, ruinous, _insupportable_ , _infernal_ -"

The insults became one long string of nonsense, turning into one failing attempt to stay awake.

I heaved myself up from the ground and slumped against another tree, shielding my eyes from the sight of the corpse. But it meant looking right at the other corpse. _Le Mort Vivant._

"How on earth did she get through the tunnels?" I wheezed, resting my head back against the bark, fighting against the nausea. "I thought you closed them!"

He was curled up in a ball amidst a heap of foliage, amber eyes fixed on me. Copying my reactions like a parrot.

"Why does nothing ever work here?" Erik muttered, his head buried in his arms as he huddled in a ball of misery. I tried, and failed, to control my rushed breathing, feeling my heart drop as it shared his remorse. I wanted to go to him, comfort him and close his wound, but the screams that poor girl had given still echoed in my mind and now I couldn't look at either of them.

"I'm going home," I whispered, tugging the jacket off and pulling my shawl around my shoulders tighter. Erik didn't budge or complain as I left.

Once inside the House I felt my face drain into a pit of nothingness in my stomach. Sour water spurted into my mouth as I recalled the terror in that little ballerina's eyes. Raising a hand to my mouth, I rushed down a passageway until there were no more candles around and emptied my stomach.

And now, Madame Giry would have to know where her young student had gone. To deal with this was going to be, in a word, difficult.

It would be so because I knew the ballerina's name. Clarisse.

* * *

"I'm sorry!" Christine spluttered. "I had no idea!"

I groaned, clutching the basin Madame Giry had passed me. We three were in her dressing room and I'd just finished relaying the tragedy to them, almost vomiting several times. I was going soft if such things now upset my stomach. Hadn't I slit throats before?

Another rush of nausea.

Madame Giry had been quiet for some time.

"I must have left one of the gates open," Christine went on, shaking her head and clutching her handkerchief. "I always feel like I'm being watched when I go Down Below but I ignore it and carry on. I suppose today it was true."

I groaned again and sat back on the settee, closing my eyes against the dizziness. "Too right it was!"

"She must have followed me from the ballet-foyer when I was speaking to Beatrice outside. I do remember hearing them giggling amongst themselves about the Ghost, but I purposefully ignored it as not to arouse suspicion."

"Too late," Madame Giry muttered. "There's no use denying your acquaintance with Erik any longer, Christine. But please, I beg you. Tell them nothing more than they already think they know."

I opened my eyes as she shook her head forlornly. "He seemed so content earlier..."

"He flicked like a switch in those 'woods'," I said, dabbing my neck - my mask was back in place by now - with a damp cloth. "I'm going to write to Nadir, Madame. I'm sure he'll make better sense of this than I."

"Nadir?" said Christine with a frown.

"The Persian," Madame Giry said as I doubled over the basin. "He, Erik and Nikita are very well acquainted."

It felt so wrong, discussing Erik as if he were a problematic child and not a man who, and I hated to admit it, might be in need of help. But murder was murder, and I couldn't sweep it under the rug this time. Between rumours and it happening before my own eyes, Erik was beginning to fill me with a sense of dread, of fear.

Christine sighed and slouched next to me, playing with her engagement ring. "Are you certain I mustn't tell Raoul about this?"

"And have the Comte send hoards of men armed to the teeth down into my house to destroy it?" I scoffed. "I think not, not after all my hard work! I'll have you know that painting of Othello and Desdémone in the dining room is by Jules Robert Auguste! Are you aware just how much we spend on parchment and candles each month? And those furnishings in the library and parlour are by no means cheap!"

"Nikita is right," Madame Giry said. "Until we hear from the Daroga, no one is to breath a word of this to anyone. As far as anyone else is concerned, Clarisse went outside and was called away by a messenger to attend a family funeral. If I hear the name 'Erik' floating around this house, there will be a heavy price to pay for you both."


	32. Chapter 28 Great Beauty

**The sudden appalled silence was broken only by my hysterical sobbing. Father Mansart looked at me in amazement, but in Erik's eyes I saw fear and great misery.**  
 **"You are overwrought," the priest said briskly, as he pressed me into a chair. "It is understandable. Great beauty is often perceived by human senses as pain."**

 **~ _Madeleine_**

 **Susan Kay, Phantom.**

* * *

"To Rouen, please," I instructed the cab driver, my voice quiet and low in the early dawn air. Even long before sunrise, Paris was coming alive with the smells of food and calls of shop owners to their delivery persons. Yet I felt the need to be as quiet as the shadows I was keeping to, for fear that either Erik hear me from the House five stories below my feet, or Jeremy would catch me on his way to work.

"You'll need to change halfway, mademoiselle," he said. I nodded.

"I'm sure this will suffice for the length you must go." I handed the fare to his navigator, who counted it out, nodded and opened the door for me, helping me up and holding my dress away from the wheels. I sat on the raggy seat and looked out at the Opera House, where the faces of various gods stared accusingly at me for leaving so suddenly. I scowled back at them and looked through the other window.

The carriage jolted into action at the whistle and whip of the driver. I smoothed out my lilac dress and took my book from my suitcase, settling down for the journey.

* * *

By the time the driver called for the horse to stop and the carriage wheels stopped turning, it was long since gone lunchtime. I awoke from a deep sleep to see a man at the side of a river, standing by an easel, a paint palette to hand and dark hair sticking out from beneath his cap. For a moment, I thought I was seeing Jeremy.

I groaned and pushed myself up from the seat as the footman opened my door and helped me out with a polite, gloved hand.

"New carriages are over there, Mademoiselle," he said, pointing me up the street as a series of stableboys gathered to take the horse to cool down.

"Thank you," I replied, taking my suitcase from him and heading for them.

The painter looked up at me as I walked past him, a look of shock turning to curiosity. I raised my chin.

"Seen something strange?" I said, and he laughed as I went on.

"I know your type; I'd ask to paint you, but I doubt you'd sit still long enough."

I smirked, handing him four sous for a watercolour of a black horse cantering through breaking waves, which I was sure Jeremy would like, and walked on.

I boarded another carriage and took out the light lunch I'd made that morning, praying that the journey would be worth it in the end.

I slept again as the afternoon turned to evening, eventually sliding away to nightfall. It was eight o'clock by the time we arrived at St-Martin-de-Boscherville, Rouen. I rented a room in an inn for the night and sat by the window to watch the silver moon rise above the forest nearby, relaxing against the wall on the window sill.

I was home.

* * *

Golden flickers of light fell upon my eyelids. I sighed, screwing them tighter, and buried my face in the bed sheets. _Not yet. Five minutes more..._

But memories of my mission, unwelcome at this hour, came rushing to mind, and I forced myself upright, muttering nonsense as my feet met the cold floor. I caught sight of myself in the mirror and sighed.

I was ready within the hour, a riding dress pulled on, accompanied by my wide-brimmed hat and flesh-toned mask.

"Excuse me, Monsieur," I called to the innkeeper as I hurried down the stairs and presented him with my key for safekeeping. "I must avail of one of your horses. And perhaps you could direct me to the Abbaye Saint-Martin?"

He eyed me suspiciously, but led me to the stables and ordered a stablehand to prepare one of the mares. I was aware of his eyes burning into my back as he left. In a small place such as Boscherville, people would remember the story of the masked monster-child of Madeleine and Charles, who had so often been chased through the forest when he'd dared to escape the house. And surely that would lead him to think of Father Mansart.

Ignoring the looks, I mounted the mare, and the hand led her out to the road, pointing in the direction of the church. Twenty minutes of trotting, he said, would have me there safe and sound, and an hour's board for five francs would put her in good hands until I was ready to return.

And with that, I was off, moving with the mare's trotting as best I could after years of very little practice. As her hooves clopped against the bumpy road, I rehearsed what I would say to the old priest, going over and over my confessions and fears until they numbed in my heart, leaving me with only empty words.

I made it to the abbey in fifteen minutes and suppressed a surge of smugness, just as the ten o'clock bells rang out for all of Rouen to hear, a chorus of heavenward praise with two other churches, whose songs travelled over the treetops from the towns beyond the forest.

"Good morning, mademoiselle," a groom greeted, tipping his hat. He caught my horse's bridle, the mare nuzzling his scruffy waistcoat and searching his tan breeches for treats. He offered me his other hand and I slipped from the saddle into the crook of his arm.

"How-do, Annette?" He smiled at the horse and she whickered. Then, to me, "From Duval's inn?"

I nodded and he grinned.

"Tell him I said hello. Bernard! Bernard, Duval sent Annette up!" And with that, he led the mare into the stables, leaving me to stare at the marvel of the abbey.

Twin turrets shot up into the sky, defending the entrance like holy angels on guard, and between them sat the clock, ticking on into the day. I ascended the stone steps one at a time, regarding the six windows set amongst the stone above me and letting memories flood back. I looked aside to the pillars in the stone that adorned the entrance, guiding the hungry and weary towards the doors, and thought of the times I'd rushed up and down these very steps with the other children of the church, playing and laughing, trying not to be caught first by each other and then by our mothers. Times had been much simpler then. There had not been corruption, or the need to survive — even if that meant murder — or marriage to worry about.

I reached the doors and stepped inside, drawing breath and hardly daring to raise my eyes from my feet as I entered the coolness of the abbey. The light from the high set windows and ground level ones alike lit the floor in airy patches of light, leaving certain places darker than the others. It was so empty, so quiet, and so difficult to recall the bustling Sundays of my childhood.

I walked up the aisle, my hand trailing over the wooden pews until it found the most familiar of all. I looked up, almost expecting to see Mama and Papa smiling at me, beckoning to sit with them for the Mass.

And so I sat on the end of that pew, staring ahead to the altar, the same sight that had lulled me to sleep during the hours of sermons I'd sat through. Jeremy was a devout believer, I knew that much. He'd love this place...

Typical. I hadn't set foot in a church since the Sunday before the house burned to the ground, and the one time I went back, I was only there to seek relationship advice from people who had sworn themselves to purity. Still, in the peaceful silence of the church, which sat quite comfortably at the heart of the Roumare forest, I found my head bowing.

"Daughter."

My head snapped up again. There, before the altar, stood a man, short and rather weathered, but carrying an air of respectability, his collar sitting neatly amongst his habit. What little of the thin greying hair he had was combed back, and although his face had more wrinkles now than ever, I recognised him at once and stood from my seat.

"Father Mansart."

"Nikita," he smiled, and held out a hand to me. "Come, child! What brings you here? I have not seen you in so long."

I went to him and let him squeeze my hand.

"Let us take a turn in the gardens," he smiled, leading me back to the door and around the side of the church. I followed, pressing my dress down as the wind caught the skirts.

"Tell me, child," he said, his voice as gentle and calm as it always had been. "What brings you all the way from Paris?"

I kept my eyes trained on the gardens as we approached their magnificent splendour, their pruned hedges and bushes still lining the pathways. Even near the end of winter, they never failed to amaze me. "I have come for heavenly wisdom, Father."

"And Pierre?" He seemed quite eager to know, but I bit my lip.

"Pierre is... not as well as I'd hoped he'd grow to be."

His brow furrowed. He offered me his hand and I took it, stepping onto a path that led to the neatly planned plant beds. "How so?"

"He... he has killed, Father. Pierre has been responsible for the murders of several men and women in the Paris Opera House, and across Europe and Asia." I let my free hand drift over the leafless branches of plants and felt a knot gather in my chest. "He goes by various other names now. I know him best as Erik. But I am sure news of the Phantom of the Paris Opera has reached Rouen by now?"

A heavy sorrow gathered in his hazel eyes. He turned away with a long sigh, habit sweeping against the stones with every step, a melody in time with my dress. "I always had a feeling Pierre was involved with such atrocities. Whenever a request for prayer from the capital arrived in the prayer room, I always found my mind wandering to that child. Has the Lord graced me with the gift of inexplicable knowledge?"

I didn't answer or contradict him, simply staring straight ahead; I'd always been sceptical when it came to the Almighty. The house fire had only hardened my heart altogether. That was when the murdering, the theft, the fear and running had begun.

And then I'd met Jeremy.

The day before I'd arrived at the Opera House, I'd killed a man. I'd been caught by a _gendarme_ stealing a loaf of bread and had killed him when he came after me. My knife had caused a gurgled concerto in the darkened alleyway, a song of protection. And yet I had bowed my head in the church. Jeremy's faith must have been contagious, filing down my sharp edges.

"He has at least graced you," I chuckled, doing my best to lighten my mood.

"Do not speak in such ways!" He clutched my arm, patting my hand. "Has He not blessed you with the breath to breathe your words? Tell me, Nikita. Recall a time when He blessed your life! You will not think for long, I assure you."

"That is actually what I came to talk to you about." I drew the chain from my dress and the ring caught the light, casting little rainbows on the ground. Father Mansart's eyes rounded.

"Ah, Nikki! How wonderful! Engaged, I presume?"

"Of sorts, Father."

"And to whom?"

I tucked the token back beneath my neckline, out of sight from any unwelcome eyes. "To a Monsieur Jeremy Desrosiers. He is the nephew of a Comte Desrosiers in a town near Toulouse."

"I cannot say I have heard of them," he said, shaking his head. "Have you come for my blessing? Or perhaps to book a marriage service?"

"Actually..." I worked my jaw back and forth, unsure exactly how I could phrase my feelings. He quirked his head at me, awaiting my continuation. "I am wondering whether I should marry at all."

He stopped short, staring at me as if I'd torn my mask off for all the world to see. "Whatever do you mean, child?"

I fiddled with my gloves. "I... I simply find myself debating whether it is the right choice. I promised to wear the ring on my neck until I came to a definite decision. That, however, is proving harder than I imagined."

"And does this man respect you?"

"Jeremy?" I cried. "Absolutely! Why, he once slept outside my door when he witnessed one of the Phantom's murders! He fills me with a joy I never thought possible to feel. Even without my telling him anything, he knows when I simply need to be held for a time. Jeremy has changed me, somehow."

"Well," he said, taking my arm again and leading us on towards the circular arrangement of stones at the heart of the garden. "Do you love the man?"

I recalled Jeremy's laugh, the sparkling of his eyes in the sunlight, the way his arms held me on the stage in the early hours of the morning, of his kisses-

His kisses had set everything into stone and melted my heart of it at the same time.

"More than anything," I said, my words breathy. "But then there is the matter of Pierre. I left him five years ago when some of my past actions caught up with me. But the first thing I realised when I returned was that he'd spent some years before my leaving in the Middle East; a dinner entertainment of sorts for the Shah of Persia. It seems his old habits have not died. He can still unleash a fury akin to hell horrors when he wishes to. What shall become of him if I abandon him once more for a life of comfort this time?"

"Ah. Of course."

"Pierre killed Jeremy's father and first fiancée. Within just the past three months since I arrived, he has taken the lives of several others. What sort of havoc will he wreck upon the remaining Parisians, and upon himself, if I leave for another man and another life, a better life? Not to mention the young singer he has manipulated, whose dreams he has crushed and who he now intends on making his eternal bride. How can I risk an innocent woman's safety?"

"Have you told Jeremy of this plight?"

I found myself laughing at that. "Jeremy has not even seen my face, but for a fleeting glance."

"Yet he did not turn away," Father Mansart murmured. His words went through me like a knife. Indeed, Jeremy had given me his cloak to hide in when everyone else had fainted or been sick. I swallowed.

"No, Father."

"And surely if he loves you enough to see your face and still propose, is he worthy of your doubt?"

"I... I suppose not." I kicked a few loose stones as we doubled back towards the church.

"If he loves you as Christ loves you," he said, squeezing my hand, "you will show him your face, tell him of your acquaintance with Pierre - or Erik, I suppose - and he will not turn away."

"And if he does?"

"Then he was never worthy of your heart, nor your hand. But from the way you describe him, I have no fear that he will remain by your side. Tell me, does he attend Mass?"

"He is a devout Catholic, Father. His morals are akin to an angel's."

 _But even angels are subject to sin,_ the voice of long ago religion nagged from the back of my mind. I flicked it away.

"Then why do you still fear?"

 _Because of Erik._ Wonderful; I was going around and around in circles. Erik, without knowing it, was blackmailing me with my own emotions.

 _Or does he?_ Was he aware of how he made me feel? It would explain the picnic. It would explain his prodding me to make friends with Christine and his distaste for Jeremy.

"What should I do?" I whispered, my eyes glued to my feet once more as we reached the steps to the front door. His hand found my shoulder, warm and firm and everything I had never known.

"That is for you to decide, Nikita. But if you wish for my advice: do not let such an opportunity for happiness go. Who knows when you will be presented with another like it? Perhaps never!"

"Is it a sin, Father? To crave happiness for oneself? To wish to be loved, in spite of the danger of others' lives?"

"It is no sin to be human. And that is what you are, just as much as this Jeremy, or Pierre, however much he might hate to acknowledge it. Neither of you is beyond the pale of humanity; do not believe you are for one minute."

He took my cheeks in his hands and pressed a kiss to my masked forehead.

"I once said to Pierre's mother that great beauty is often perceived by human senses as pain. I now pass this onto you, daughter. Leave your sins behind. Marry Jeremy. Marry him and be the best wife you can be."

* * *

Ten francs, the stablehand said, Annet's bridle in one hand, his other proffered for my money. Ten francs for the two hours, nothing less. I'd spent another forty minutes sitting inside the church, thinking long and hard in the quiet solitude, all thoughts of cost out of mind.

It was only after some pouting and the mention of funds for a wedding dress that he smiled and whittled it down to eight. One franc, he said, in exchange for my name, the other for a kiss on the cheek. I rolled my eyes but handed over the coins and stepped up onto my toes to kiss his dirt-streaked skin. He helped me into the saddle, keeping a firm hold on her bridle until I uttered my name.

"Your groom is quite the lucky man," he chuckled, releasing Annette when I'd straightened my dress over my legs and found my balance in the side-saddle. "If suddenly your tastes lie with the country life, I'll be waiting for you."

"I doubt it," I replied with a grin, pushing Annette into a walk and on to a trot. One last glance over my shoulder at the Abbey, at Father Mansart waving me off from the steps, filled me with a quiet sadness that settled like a feather at the bottom of my heart.

I didn't realise it then, but it was to be the last time I ever saw the priest, one of the only people to know most of my secrets and what lay beneath my porcelain mask.


	33. Chapter 29 Beyond the Lake

_Clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop._

I looked up from my poetry book as the carriage was plunged into darkness; we'd entered the carriage rotunda at the Opera House, which towered above me into the heights of the dark sky, stonework lit occasionally by lamplight. I sighed and closed the book, setting it back in my suitcase. The footman's shoes clacked against the stone and suddenly my door was open with just a few clicks.

"Mademoiselle," he said, tipping his hat and standing aside.

 _"Merci bien,"_ I replied under my breath, ducking to avoid knocking my bonnet off against the frame as an ungloved hand caught my suitcase from my grip.

I looked up incredulously at the man who dared take my belongings without my permission and opened my mouth to voice my annoyance.

Jeremy looked back, his other hand reaching towards me, open palmed and waiting.

I stared for a moment. As much as I'd have loved to jump into his arms from the height of the carriage, Jeremy's normally shining eyes seemed shadowed by a kind of fear, or perhaps disdain. It could simply have been the darkness of the nighttime, but I froze all the same.

He wasn't wearing all that much, even in the biting chill of winter, just a rough dress-shirt and pantaloons held up with braces. His hair was mussed and dusted with light grey sawdust, the same streaks strewn across his cheeks, coupled with rosy cheeks from the wintery winds. His shoes were falling apart in a mess of leather and lace, and his eyes were rimmed with dark circles, as if he'd been waiting outside all night. The bells of Notre Dame had long since chimed the witching hour.

The footman cleared his throat, still holding the door open. I took Jeremy's hand and let him lead me down.

I reached into my money pouch, fishing for the eighteen francs the driver wanted as a fee. "Your fare, Mons—"

But Jeremy was already handing over his money and saying a courteous 'goodnight, gentlemen,' and before I knew it, I was following him, hand in hand, into the warmth of the Opera House.

He closed the door behind me quietly and reached to unclasp my cloak. Draping it over the crook of his arm, the same one to hold the suitcase, he offered me his hand once more without a word. I took it again, slightly disconcerted by his silence, and let him bring me down to my bedroom.

"You missed _La Traviata_ ," he said beneath his breath, as not to wake the sleeping cleaners, scene shifters and bakers in the rooms behind the many doors, not meeting my eyes but staring straight ahead. "Nevel was wonderful, as always. Very well behaved."

"Oh," I whispered. "That's very... good."

"It is. I'd trust that horse with my life."

"Was there anything... _specific_ you wished to tell me?" He stopped walking and looked at the ground. I moved to place a hand gingerly on his shoulder, over his brace. He tensed, but didn't shrug me off. His hand crept up and covered mine, his calloused thumb running back and forth over my glove.

"The murder has been confirmed. The Phantom left a note claiming responsibility. He also decided he would be making a careful note of your movements, because 'she keeps disappearing and never seems to be available for the duties attributed to her line of work, which is quite worrying for me as her employer.' Whatsmore, he threatened my safety for any of your continued, unexplained absences."

I found myself drawing a sharp breath and my hand gripped his shirt. I'd left a note on the counter! How could he not have seen it when it was left right beside his favourite china teacup? "He did?"

Jeremy nodded. "He said, 'If the Mademoiselle is not put in line by the Managers, I shall be forced to take the matters into my own hands, at the expense of her good friend, Monsieur Desrosiers. The same conditions shall apply to any member of staff whose absence I find is prolonged unnecessarily.'"

My heart clenched at that. _He wouldn't dare._ He wouldn't touch a hair on Jeremy's head, and curse him if he did! Yet what choice did I have? It was blackmail! I was gone for just three days, _and_ I'd left that note!

"Where were you, Nikita?" he sighed, looking over his shoulder at me and continuing to rub my hand.

"Rouen," I replied, unable to prevent the word from tumbling from my lips. "I was seeking marriage counsel from a friend of mine, Father Mansart."

"And you didn't have a gentleman escort? My love, do you not realise how dangerous it is for a woman to travel alone and for so far without a man present?"

He turned to me fully and brought his hand to my cheek. I looked away; he was right, and that was the crushing part. If I was to be a wife, there would be no more solo carriage journeys. There should never have been in the first place!

"I'm sorry."

"I know you well enough to know you're definitely not," he chuckled, though it was a sad, low chuckle, a feeble attempt to lift the dark mood the early morning had presented us with. He kissed my lips quickly and showed me to my bedroom door. "Get some rest, darling. And please, for both our sakes, be at work tomorrow. I won't lose you as well."

I nodded and unlocked it. I was halfway over the threshold when he said, "This counselling you went to... did you come to a decision."

I licked my lips nervously. "I am surer of my choice now than I was yesterday morning."

 _J_ _ust a bit more time._

I took a little hop forwards and kissed him again, grabbing the opportunity of our privacy to make it last just a bit longer.

"I hate to make you wait—"

"Don't worry about me," he said, his hands finding my waist. "Although I must insist I have my answer by Sunday. That will be over a week since I asked. Is this reasonable?"

Five days. Five whole days to decide whether I wished to be Madame Jeremy Desrosiers or not. I mulled it over for a second and nodded.

"I love you," he whispered, stroking my hair back. I smiled and disappeared with my suitcase into the shadows of my room, closing the door behind me with a tired sigh.

I left the case on my bed with a sigh and sat next to it. Of course, I wanted to be Jeremy's wife. I wanted to be happy for years and years. I wanted to see our children growing up and making their own special ways in the world, ways better and less bloody than mine had been. There was just one problem: Erik's temper.

I knew my friend only too well to think he'd give me his blessing, kiss my cheek and let me go, and if Jeremy had quoted the letter correctly, my happy ever after was the last thing Erik wanted to worry about. Better to keep me confined in the shadows than free in the light of a different world, where I couldn't cause trouble or bring the light into his realm of darkness while he focused on making Christine a queen to his king. It would just be another distraction he didn't need, and Erik's ways of ridding himself of distractions was not something I wanted Jeremy to suffer.

I looked at the Angel in the corner. If Erik was so angry at my absence, enough to threaten Jeremy again, there was only one way to stop him.

* * *

"Erik?"

I crept through the passageway into my bedroom, expecting to see it in its normal state. How wrong I was.

The place was a tip. The armoire had been thrown open, the clothes scattered on the floor all around me. Picture frames lay smashed on the stone. The ottoman lid had been crushed in on itself, the bedsheets torn and one of the wooden posters that held up the curtains around the bed had been smashed almost in half.

And there, at my feet, lay the burned remains of my music. All my music sheets, all the fugues and quartets, the recreations and originals, everything lay burned and charred, some beyond recognition.

The pieces I'd been working on for months lay barely legible, and so too were my scores from my time in London, Vienna and Berlin. I sucked in a breath and bent to pick one up. It shattered into thin wafers and floated back to the floor in a mix of a hundred pieces and dust.

Other than my racing heartbeats, the House seemed deathly silent.

Or at least it did, until I pricked my ears. I was certain I'd heard something just there. A snuffle perhaps, or a sob. It could simply have been the monkey and the cat fighting down the hall, but there was a strange, human element to the noise and I found my feet moving towards the door and out into the parlour.

The noise came again. I was sure of it! Yes, I'd heard something, I knew it!

Rushing past the organ, I picked the lock of the shut door - which was unusual, because I'd never known this one to be locked - and hurried out into the hallway. Another snuffle met my ears. I followed the sound, testing each door and knocking, but to no avail.

With just one door left, I was on the verge of calling myself insane, or the victim of one of Erik's tricks to lure me down here. But I rapped on the library door all the same, and when I tried the handle, it wouldn't budge an inch.

"Erik?" another voice called, broken but evidently trying to be strong. "Erik, is that you? Let me out! I promise I shan't go near that horrid torture chamber again, I swear it!"

"Christine?" I called, trying the handle again. "Is that you, Christine?"

"Nikki?" She sniffed and I heard the couch creak, as if she'd stood in expectation. "Nikki! Get me out of this room! Please, I _beg_ you! _Nikki_!"

I hurried the key into the lock, my hands scraping about in a frantic attempt to unlock it.

And suddenly, it was wide open, and I saw Christine in my library, holding an encyclopaedia for a weapon and watching the door in fear. Her eyes were wide and red, puffed with the tears that still soaked her cheeks. The state her hair was in suggested she had not brushed or washed it for a number of days now. She dropped the book and rushed to meet me in the middle of the room. I caught her in my arms as she broke down once more, leading her back to the settee.

"Where's Erik?" I said as she fought for control over her splutters and sobs, handing her my handkerchief from the pocket in my bodice.

"Gone," she managed to say, scraping her tears away and staining my hankie with kohl. "Oh, Nikki! It was dreadful! He followed me to my father's grave and whilst I was praying, he fetched me up onto his horse and took me back here for our lessons! I'm to marry him when he comes home!"

She paused to choke on a splutter and swallowed her nerves, tense all of a sudden. She clutched my hands and stood, taking me with her.

"We must go! Take me away from here, I beg you! I cannot bear to marry such a man!" She pushed her hair away from her face and dragged her sleeve over her eyes. Her next words came as a whisper, a voice akin to a mouse's little squeak. "I want my Raoul."

I nodded and we hurried towards the door, out into the hallway and then parlour. She let out a long, ragged sigh when she saw the state of my room and clutched my hankie to her chest. Her fair, beautiful face had been marred by blotches of flush and sweat had gathered on her brow.

"He was in such a temper when he left."

I grabbed her hand and tugged her into the passageway. We ran as fast as our dresses would allow, though Christine stopped more often for breath than I, unused to the sensation.

"Where is he now?" I asked as we walked through the third cellar and hurried up yet more flights of steps.

"Not in Paris, that's for certain," she replied, although she'd been glancing over her shoulder as if she expected his deathly fingers to catch her and drag her back to the depths of her hell. "He was screaming something about Rouen. After our music practice, I became curious. He let me wander around as he fetched some food from the kitchens for our dinner, and while he was away, I stumbled into that accursed room of mirrors!"

I shuddered as I felt about a wall for an exit. I'd never been inside that room, and I never planned to either, but I had seen the designs and I had seen it in action. Even being within its walls would most likely cause me to faint.

"He got me out, and was going to fetch you to watch me, but when he couldn't seem to summon you, he flew into a rage and locked me in the library. I remember he went into the kitchen, and when he came back out, he was shouting so loudly and in Arabic that I hid behind the settee and armed myself with that encyclo—"

Footsteps fell a little way ahead. I leapt back from the wall and grabbed Christine, hiding away in the shadows behind us, my hand over her mouth. She trembled beneath me and we clutched each other in rising fear. The light of a lantern swept across the floor before us. The footsteps came closer. And then the figure appeared.

I almost cried for joy when I realised it was a simple door shutter, gaunt and bent by age. He was either too deaf or too blind to notice us, and Christine and I glanced at each other in relief, the only movement we dared make. The door shutter continued on his way and only once he was out of sight did we breathe a collective gasp.

"Why did he go to Rouen?" I hissed as we hurried on towards our freedom.

"Why do you think? He found your note. I heard him screaming about it in various languages, so I didn't understand a lot of it. But he did knock on the library door and order me to stay there until he returned. A few minutes later, I was alone. That was two days ago."

My heart was nearly ready to leap out of my throat, and it wasn't quite from all the running. But our exercise ordeal was almost over, for I spotted the glimmer of light from an exit up ahead and sprinted towards it.

"My dressing room!" Christine cried as she caught up beside me. I fiddled with the catch above my head, testing the mirror every few seconds.

"Erik is in Rouen then."

"As far as I know. He took César and left early on Sunday."

I shoved the mirror in desperation, praying for it to turn on its rusty axis. Growing frustrated, I pushed harder. "Why won't it _open_?"

With a sharp kick, the mirror budged. I worked my fingers between the space it left and worked the lever overhead once more. Finally, it swung open and we tumbled out into the dressing room in a tangle of legs, arms and skirts.

Christine was on her feet before me, grabbing her cloak from the open armoire. Pulling it over her shoulders, she tossed me her key and I went to open the door.

We fled up through the corridors towards the foyer, dragging each other along until we were in the safety of the light. We were just passing the Grand Escalier as another figure, dressed in black, was descending its steps.

"Raoul!" Christine screamed, breaking away from me and shooting off to the side to meet him. He froze on the steps as she took them two at a time and threw herself into his arms, where she sobbed into his clothes.

"Christine!" He looked at me over her shoulder, at where I was still standing in the Grand Foyer beyond the arches.

"Take her away from here," I called and he brought her back down the stairs, cradling her in his arms, close to his chest. "Far away, Vicomte. Don't let her come back, not this week, not ever. Stay away from this Opera House."

But Christine howled and wriggled in Raoul's grip. "I cannot abandon Erik! I cannot leave him to die!"

"You were Down Below," Raoul breathed. He caught her cheek and turned her face to his, checking her over. "Good God! I had no idea! Come, Christine! My carriage is waiting outside!"

He tried to show her to the entrance hall, but she dug her heels into the floor and protested Erik's heart. When he finally managed to carry her down the steps to the doors, Raoul, flushing in a rush of anger, caught my arm.

"Take me down there, Nikita!" he cried. "Take me to the House on the Lake! I'll kill this man!"

But I shook my head and pulled his hand away from my dress. "He isn't there today. He's travelling to Rouen from what I hear. Go, Monsieur, and take the woman with you. Christine will tell you what she knows on the way."

He stared into my eyes, searching for the lie he was certain I was telling. But then he shook my hand, thanked me for rescuing Christine, took her by the arm and led her out into the brightness of the dawn.

I flopped against the statue of Handel, stressing my hands through my hair and watching the pair disappear, Christine tightly clutched in the crook of Raoul's arm as he hurried her into his carriage. To my side, Gluck's statue watched the scene with an interested terror. It was almost as if these composers, even in their graves, could sense the havoc Erik was about to wreck because of this. My chest clenched. In a bid to keep my anguish unvoiced and deep inside, I slid to the floor against the pedestal and buried my face in my arms, quite prepared to stay there until Jeremy came to get me for dinner.

And when he did, I tried to force all thoughts of Erik, of Christine and of the impending danger from my mind. Instead, he heard all about my travels to Rouen.

I was right after all. He did like the watercolour painting. In fact, I was so engrossed in our conversations that I did not notice, that under the cover of the night, a woman was sneaking back into the Opera House, or that behind her followed the cloaked figure of a gentleman.


	34. Chapter 30 Why So Silent?

My first encounter with Erik in the following days came while I was scrubbing the floors of the grand foyer under the watchful eye of Giles André, who was pretending to read his newspaper. I wasn't fooled by the amateur disguise but scrubbed on, keeping my head down, only slowing for a split second when the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

I resumed in a heartbeat, pretending Erik could not have noticed my hesitation. André remained none the wiser and flipped the page.

It had been like this for two days. Once the managers found I'd returned, I'd been bustled into the office and given a stern reprimanding for my unauthorised absence. They showed me the threat the Ghost had sent them and had refused me permission to leave that office until I signed a new contract, one more like a prison sentence than a document of work, on pain of being reported to the gendarmes for being involved with a terrorist.

The presence lifted after a minute and I bit back a sigh of relief; no doubt I was in trouble with more management than Firmin and André. My little excursion would catch up with me sooner or later.

It turned out to be the former. The next day, as I cleaned the aisles of the auditorium in anticipation of the night's entertainment, Firmin, who had been glaring at me from the stage for twenty minutes, marched down the steps and over to me.

"Tell me, Mademoiselle," he sneered from the aisle at the end of the row I was cleaning, and I looked up in confusion. "This favour you once did the Ghost: what was it?"

Caught off guard, I studied his piercing blue eyes, my mind sprinting through the variety of stories Erik and I had created for this situation.

"I brought him food when I was a child," I replied, standing straight and bobbing a courtesy. "He needed it and repaid my kindness by giving me the privilege of Box Five. One good deed deserves another."

A frightening look of glee lit up his already narrow eyes.

"Aha!" He leaned forwards to my eye level and tapped the tip of my masked nose. "Ghosts are already dead, mademoiselle! They are disembodied spirits! They cannot eat and have no need for food."

I scanned the gathering crowd of ballerinas on the stage and other cleaners in the boxes or various rows of seating, all eyes and ears on me. I dared to swallow and kept my expression as neutral as possible.

"Maybe _this_ one does, Monsieur. What do you know about ghosts anyhow, to be telling me what they do or don't need?"

"I think the question, Mademoiselle," he said, turning to glance sneakily at people in the crowd, who were edging their way towards us, "is: what do _you_ know about the ghost?"

Murmurs arose, hushed whispers of interest and scandal. The mask grew hotter against my skin.

"What are you insinuating, Monsieur?" I said, reaching the steely edge of my patience.

"That you are affiliated with the Ghost of this Opera House!"

My entire body burnes. At first, I thought it was just the coarse anger rushing through my veins. It was only when the hairs on my arms stood up and a shiver ran down my spine that I glanced up. Nothing there by sight, but only a fool would imagine he would be seen.

"Affiliated?" I said, trying to block out the nervous wavers with determination. I moved from the row to the aisle, standing before him indignantly. "Monsieur, this is ridiculous! I have work to do! Are you trying to keep me from earning my honest wages in public?"

A mop of dark curls worming its way to the front of the crowd caught my eye. Jeremy pushed his way through, looking downright thundery. He reached my side in a few strides and caught me in his arm.

"Are you suggesting that this woman is dealing in dark trades with the forces that be?" he asked, his grip on my arm relentlessly tight.

"I'm _suggesting,_ Monsieur," Firmin spat, his glare turning to him, "that your loyalty is being deceived in sordid manners! And I believe this ghost of hers is simply a man, prone to hiding and attacking where and when he can to get his way. A man is a man is a man, Monsieur, and a woman a woman. If I were you, I would have your bride make a confession of her chastity!"

"We believe," André piped up, hurrying to his company's side, his chest puffed and chin high, "that Mademoiselle is sharing intimate meetings with this man, Roeun be damned!"

"All the evidence points to his being a man of the flesh," Firmin nodded. "After all, his interest in Mademoiselle Daae only proves this, if the stories are reliable. Tell me, Nikita: is your lover a polygamist?"

Jeremy went the deepest shade of red I had ever seen, least of all on him. "How _dare_ you?" he cried, drawing me to his side until I was flush against his body. "My fiancée is untouched by any man's hand!"

I didn't dare look up at him.

"She is uniquely privileged by virtue of her relationship with the Phantom—" André started.

"Though perhaps we should reconsider our use of the word virtue," Firmin interrupted under his breath.

I flushed, and Jeremy scowled.

Firmin raised his eyebrows and turned back to me. "Perhaps you would like to tell us how this ghost eats then? What did you give him?"

It was all I could do not to stab the man there and then.

"Simple bread," I replied, "and water."

"And how old were you?"

"Six." Another lie on the uncountable pile. I was eight when I first met Erik.

"Thirteen years ago, then."

 _Twenty-one_ _. Actually._

"Impossible!" La Carlotta's shrill voice had never been as bitter as that. "He couldn't possibly remember something like that!"

"I was here thirteen years ago," an aged stagehand piped up, moving forwards and glaring at me. "Nothing of the sort happened! It would have spread like wildfire like every other rumour! What honest Parisian woman would give away her food in the middle of a war?"

Firmin smirked. Jeremy pulled me tighter to him, his arm around my waist and his thumb rubbing the occasional circle on my hip.

"She's innocent!" he protested. I frowned at Firmin, but my resolve was wearing away. Why was I always running? To hell with this job, surely! I could elope with Jeremy tonight if I wished! He would up and leave at my command, I knew it. But then there was the matter of Nevel and of Jeremy's job, and my faith in him dwindled.

"She knows him alright," Carlotta sneered, tossing the feathers in her hat at me. "And she must have done _something_ wrong while she was entertaining him under our noses! Or perhaps she is good at her tasks! Perhaps that is why he is jealous of her fiancé! And of Monsieur le Vicomte! By God, the ghost has a harem!"

The ties I'd looped over my tongue now snapped.

"If you could actually sing, perhaps he wouldn't have been so angered in the first place, with or without the Vicomte in the way!" I hissed. Carlotta shrieked. Jeremy's arm moved to my shoulders.

"Damn you both," Firmin hissed. Jeremy tensed. "You two have brought this destruction upon us, haven't you? You and your childish romance put him into a rage!"

"I don't know anything about him!" I cried, becoming desperate.

"Lies!" André roared. He raised his hand and I realised what he was doing just a moment too late.

The mask's ties unravelled in his hands as he tugged it from my face. I screamed, assaulted with the cold air, and slammed my hands over my face. A rough edge of porcelain had cut through a wound and now my gloves, desperate to conceal the terror of my face from hundreds of unwanted eyes, stained with wet droplets that settles on my palms.

Jeremy lunged. The place erupted with screams and shouts, some calling for morbid entertainment as my fiancé wrestled his employer to the floor, others for peace before someone ended up seriously injured. It was no secret that stagehands often kept knives on their person to cut down old ropes from sets. An experienced man would make light work of André's thin throat.

"Jeremy!" I shouted, peering through my fingers, though he was already lost in the scrap. Firmin hollered and caught me by the arm with a grip like steel. He shook me back and forth until I felt faint and the world spun, but still, I kept my hands against my face.

The rattling of metal railings from above the stage stopped everyone in their tracks, seeming to come from everywhere but nowhere all at once.

"Who _dares_ wreak havoc in my theatre?"

André used Jeremy's moment of frozen horror to land a kick to his abdomen, sending him sprawling to the ground with a loud moan. I used the seconds everyone else spent staring at Box Five or the darkened corners of the auditorium to rush to his side and help him sit up.

"Come down and show yourself!" Firmin cried, shaking a fist in every direction.

Erik only chuckled, his voice wandering through the auditorium from one place to another, just like a spirit floating just below the roof. "Are you challenging the Phantom of the Opera? Do you think he will play your games?"

Jeremy froze as the voice shattered the mix of delighted and fearful screams. I grabbed his shoulders, pulling him up and drawing him away from the managers.

"You're no ghost!" André yelled, jumping to his feet. "You're simply a man in the guise of a spirit!"

The gates rattled again and the entrance doors slammed violently, over and over again. The ballerinas screamed. I kept scanning the room as if I had no idea where the voice was coming from.

Erik chuckled, low and dark and dangerous. "Is my power doubted? Can a man do this?"

The lights went out and another chorus of screams sounded.

In the darkness a hand grabbed my arm, tugging me until I stumbled into the person's arms.

"Erik—!" I tried to cry, before a hand covered my mouth. They pinned me to their chest, a man's chest, hauling me away from everyone else down the aisle. In my panic, my hand flew to my captor's face, feeling for the mask.

There was none.

Instead, they pressed something into my hands, and I stifled a breath of relief as I felt the familiar texture of my mask. I pulled it on in seconds and a pair of hands tied it for me.

"I'm here," Jeremy whispered, his lips grazing my ear as he spoke, driving out the noise of screams. "It's me, I'm here."

Swallowing, I nodded, almost tempted to rest my head back against him, but restraining myself.

"Come out and face us, you coward of a man!" Firmin yelled. The doors slammed again and Erik roared.

"I am no man!" he shouted. Jeremy pressed me closer to him. "Men do not do this!"

In the darkness, I wasn't sure who screamed next, although the pitch and frequency suggested it was a young girl. Jeremy's arms snaked around me and we burrowed into each other as that scream was cut off halfway through. I felt a shiver run down his spine and buried my masked face in his neck as my own fear washed over me.

The lights reignited.

I hardly dared to look. One of the smaller, younger ballerinas lay lifeless on the stage. Sharp bruises coated her little throat and her eyes stayed fixed in wide, eternal terror.

Erik had killed a child.

There was a moment of alarmed silence, where no one moved and no one said a word, but all eyes were fixed on the same sight. Someone howled in recognition and that set off another wave of screams. I cowered into Jeremy's arms as Firmin turned his deathly glare on me.

"This is her doing!" he screamed, pointing a finger right at me. All eyes turned to me once more. "This witch! Phantom!"

I wished I could wake up from this nightmare, wake up in Jeremy's arms ten years from now, in a house of our own where he could comfort me that I'd been having vivid flashbacks, and take me out for a walk to calm my nerves. But I didn't wake up. This was very, very real. And from the way Jeremy clutched me, I could tell he wished the same thing.

"Call the police! Find the constable!" Firmin screamed, jumping about in hysterics until I expected he'd start foaming at the mouth. I pushed myself away from Jeremy, chin raised.

"I had nothing to do with this!"

"She's innocent!" Jeremy's hand locked with mine. "How _dare_ you treat her so?"

Firmin strode up the aisle, André trotting behind him. He snatched my arms from Jeremy's grip, lifting me to his eye level. "Call down this demon, witch! Call him to us and have him prove your innocence!"

"Call him yourself."

Finally, the place went silent.

My heart stopped beating. Jeremy drew a sharp breath, collective with the audience. Firmin and André glanced at each other, both as horrified as the other. Everyone turned, ever so slowly, to face the Phantom of the Opera.

"Put the Mademoiselle down," he said in a dangerously smooth voice. Firmin's eyes didn't leave the stern, brilliant white mask.

My feet met the floor. Jeremy reclaimed my hand and pulled me to his side again, staring hard.

Erik nodded at me and paced to stand beside the frozen managers. His cape swept back as he drew a gloved hand from his side and took mine. Bowing, he kissed my knuckles.

Standing straight again, Erik returned his gaze to the others. Everyone took a step back.

"Why so silent, good Messieurs?" Erik purred, smiling like the Cheshire Cat from that strange novel I'd read by Lewis Carroll. No one's eyes left him. Firmin swallowed his nerves.

"Pha... Phant..." he muttered, his hands trembling.

"I am indeed the Phantom, yes." Erik cooed. He paced before the crowd, a general inspecting his disobedient troops. He stopped before another little ballerina, quaking in her shoes, and bent to her eye level. Taking a gentle hold of her chin and moving her gaze to him, he said, "Emilie Beaulieu. Such a good ballerina. I can only pity her for her peers hindering her performance each time."

He let her go and she scurried to Madame Giry's side. The instructor shot Erik a very dark look.

"Madame," he greeted in the same low purr, bowing. His smile washed over the rest of the cast and crew until his eyes met mine. Jeremy tensed and pulled me back a couple of steps. I stumbled.

"Leave her alone!" Erik snapped, shocking Jeremy into letting my arm go. He marched over and took my hand. "Thank you, Monsieur Desrosiers. I'll remember how you obeyed me."

He led me from Jeremy's side, catching my eye knowingly. Finally understanding his game, I pretended to hang back in fear.

Jeremy got the wrong message and started after us, stopping only when Erik shot him a poisonous glare. "Do not make me rethink my good impression of you, Monsieur."

Jeremy glanced at me again. He stopped but did not retreat, tense and ready to disobey.

"Mademoiselle de La Chance earned her rights," the Phantom said, his deadly purr echoing throughout the auditorium. "I am not completely without morals; I am able to show compassion to those who lend me their kindness. This is why Mademoiselle has been given the use of Box Five."

He observed the spectators again, but this time, his gaze stopped in one place and stuck there. _Christine._

It didn't last. He turned again to the managers, regaining his cold power.

"She is not to blame for the travesties that your disobedience has brought about, Mr Managers. Need I remind you that my next salary is due? I shall give you two days to pay the forty thousand francs I am owed; I will not make threats in the presence of women, so let that be the last of it."

My eyes wandered to the dead ballerina.

"Or what?" André spat, taking a bold step towards us. "You'll kill another child? We'll have you shot if you come near us again, you hear?"

Erik shook his head. "Why would I make a child pay for your sins?"

"You already did," Firmin spat, gesturing to the fresh corpse. Erik's mouth quirked into a dark smirk.

"And is it you who are going to make them pay?"

Firmin glared. Without warning, he lunged for Erik, hand outstretched. I tensed against him, trying to squirm away.

A collective gasp arose. Firmin's hand went right through Erik's body as if he was simply thin air. The manager recoiled, gripping his hand and staring at it like he had caught the plague.

The Phantom laughed and let me go. Jeremy rushed to take me back, clutching me to him as if I were a child's stuffed animal. We retreated a few paces until Erik held up his hand.

"Mademoiselle is to be treated with respect," he hissed, his voice growing cold suddenly. "I've noticed her scrubbing the foyer by herself before and I will not stand for it! And as for Miss Daae—" he stepped towards the girl and I saw the fear rush through her face, whitening it like powder, "—I do hope she has made the wise decision to accept my offer of the lead role in my _Don Juan_. But for this performance, she must attend her voice lessons, don't you agree? We wouldn't want her voice to go to waste after all that work, would we?"

She flinched as he reached to stroke her chin and looked away. "Never," she hissed, summoning all her courage and packing it into her fists. "I will never sing for you again! Not after you locked me up in that awful room for two days!"

A gasp arose. Erik reeled back. I must have been the only one to notice his moment of weakness, the brief second he spent digesting that truth, the worst tasting medicine. He leaned down to her, and in the silence of the auditorium, I heard his whispers.

"I won't hurt you." She shook her head defiantly. " _Christine—"_

"No!" she snapped again, regarding him with a mix of fear and loathing. Erik caught her wrist. Christine gaped, just centimetres from his face.

"Your voice is my creation," he hissed. "You may have escaped me before, with significant help I presume, but mark my words, another such antic will not go unpunished. There are worse things than a broken voice; think of your precious R—"

I'd always thought I was the only one brave enough to slap Erik across the face. Maybe I'd underestimated Christine Daae.

He retreated fully, cradling his mask. Murmurs of delight set him glaring, mostly at me. I played along and shrank back, creating a dance of retreat amongst the crowd. Some raised their hands, ever so slowly, to their eyes. Erik looked impressed and gave a small clap.

"Very good, my friends," he said, nodding at them. "You obviously learned quickly. Survival of the wisest, eh?"

No one laughed.

"Wonderful senses of humour," Erik murmured, reaching into his pocket and drawing out a pocket watch. "Is that the time? And the children are still awake? Madame Giry, this is not responsible care, you know."

She frowned as he stepped, without a noise, towards the shadows of the orchestra pit.

"I enjoyed this little... meeting we had. But let's not do it again; it's quite draining. Death does have other things to do, you know—"

I rolled my eyes.

"Wait!" Firmin cried, as Erik carved his way through the crowd. He stopped and turned to the manager as people parted for him like the Red Sea. "What do you even _do_ with twenty thousand francs every month?"

I thought of the parchment and candles and didn't meet Erik's eye.

Erik's teeth bared, one of his slyest grins to date. "The question, Monsieur Firmin, is not what I do with the money. It is what I do _not_ do once I have it." He nodded pointedly to the body.

My throat went particularly dry.

Erik nodded his farewell and turned to the shadows of the orchestra pit. People cowered by the walls, creating an exceptionally wide path before him. The shadows enveloped him, leaving them silent and quaking in their shoes.

"Wait!" Jeremy shouted, leaving my side to hurry after him. A new cacophony arose and others jumped to catch him before he could plunge himself into his own destruction. He fought their grip on his arms and cried out again. "What did you do with my Julianna? Where is she? Answer me, demon!"

My Julianna.

I wasn't sure what exactly happened within me as he said that. I don't know if there is even a word for the feeling of one's soul being ripped into a hundred pieces and bleeding out in agony through one's skin.

It was in the delirium of this horror that I slipped away from the crowd and turned my back on my fiancé.

I could only put it down to jealousy as I scurried back to my room, threw open the door, locked it behind me, and slouched against the wall by the angel. Tears pooled in my eyes, stinging my nose, and I tore my mask off again, abandoning it to the floor. I tried to blink them away, horribly reminded Father Mansart's words: _It is no sin to be human... neither of you is beyond the pale of humanity._

I slid down the wall into a heap of emotion on the floor and cried. It was only fair that Jeremy wanted justice for Julianna's death. And yet, in a childish persistence, my mind screamed that it wasn't so over and over again. Jeremy was mine. Jeremy was _my_ sunlight, _my_ joy, _my_ redemption. I couldn't bear to think of sharing him, least of all with a dead woman.

And yet, his arms had held me. His lips had kissed mine. In a rush of adamance, I tore his mother's ring from my neck and slammed it onto my finger. Jeremy was just another thing I refused to share. I curled my hand around the ring and clutched it to my chest, rolling into a ball once more and ignoring the way my corset pressed into my stomach.

I _would_ marry him, if it was the last thing I did. And no ghost, real or otherwise, would stop me.


	35. Chapter 31 What Answer Can I Give?

**Am I overly happy with this chapter? No, not really. Do I have to leave it because I'm ill and have no energy? Yeah, pretty much.**

* * *

I'd been sulking in my room for ten minutes before someone rapped upon the door. Screwing my face up, I buried it in the pillow I was clutching.

"Whoever it is, go away!"

The door creaked opened anyhow. "Room service!"

I glared over the top of the fabric as they stuck their head in, scanning the room. When a pair of emerald eyes found me against the wall, a small smile graced the intruder's lips.

"Would you like your sheets doing, Mademoiselle? Your pillows plumping? Mantel dusting? Spoon feeding?"

"What are you playing at, Jeremy?" I sighed, lowering the pillow to watch as he stepped into my room and closed the door behind him. His eyes widened in mock horror and he raised a hand to his chest.

"I am but a humble cleaner!" he said, kicking the spare broom I kept by the door into his hand. "Madame Leroy!"

He chased the brush around my room, whistling loudly and quite off key. Despite my cringing, I smiled.

"Well, Madame Leroy," I said, sticking my leg out as he hurried past me and stopping the brush in its path. "Please find my fiancé and ask him to attend to his bride."

He pouted. "Do you need a hug?"

"Perhaps."

The brush clattered to the ground. Jeremy dropped to his knees beside me, wrapping me up in his arms. I pressed my face into his neck, breathing the dry smell of his dusty hair and closing my eyes. He rubbed my back, his other hand unknotting my hair gently.

"What's wrong?" he whispered. "The Phantom?"

I shook my head. "No, it's just... it was what you said about Julianna."

"Julianna?"

"You still love her, don't you?"

He pulled back with a frown. "I _loved_ her. Why? Are you worried I might love her more than you? Is that what this is about?"

"I'm sorry! Your guess is as good as mine." I stared at my lap. "I suppose I'm... perhaps I'm _slightly_ jealous. You speak of her sometimes as if she were a queen; how am I supposed to compete with that?"

"I _don't_ _want_ you to compete with her." His hand found my cheek and as he looked into my eyes, his own shrouded with a heavy, dark worry, or perhaps a fear of where I might bring the conversation if he didn't stop me soon enough. "I didn't fall in love with you because you were the best substitute at the time; I fell in love with you because you're you. Is that so hard to understand?"

My hand moved to cover his. "You haven't even seen my face."

"You never gave me the chance. Why is that, Nikki? Are you so afraid of my reaction?"

I choked on a breath and gripped his waistcoat. Jeremy wrapped his arms around me again, shushing and rocking me like a babe.

"You are a good man, Jeremy," I whispered in his ear. "Perhaps the kindest I've ever met. But still, you are a man. I shouldn't expect much more from you."

"Nikki." He held me tighter and smoothed some of the wild waves of my hair down behind my ear. "Please. Why must it be like this?"

"Because I have no face, I have only..." I hesitated, searching for the right word. "I have only the _semblance_ of a face. It was burned to cinders during the house fire. You can do better than that, Jeremy, find a bride more worthy of you."

"And yet you're wearing my mother's wedding ring on your finger." When I didn't lift my gaze from the floor, he lifted my hand and tilted it until rainbows fell against my dress. I watched as they danced over the folds in the fabric. They flickered out suddenly, and the soft touch of Jeremy's lips on my fingers finally lifted my eyes. When he straightened and found me staring at him, he smiled softly, just the edges of his lips lifting. "Did you think I wouldn't notice? Please, Nikki. You have my word; nothing can change my mind."

I stared at him for a long moment, watched the dancing of emerald and fire in his eyes for any sign of a lie. He took both my hands in his, open and gentle so I could reach for my mask when ready.

I worried at my lip, swallowing every so often for fear of my heart leaping right out of my throat. Was I a fool to hope he could look? Was I a fool to pray he might actually honour his word? Was there really hope? Or would it be easier to pack my things and move on once more, on to a different city, a different life, a different name? I looked back into his eyes.

Ah, but I was indeed a fool, a fool in love.

With shaking hands, I reached up to find my mask ties in my hair. A few tugs here and there, undoing the usual knots, and suddenly it was loose, hanging only by the hand that held against to my face. Screwing my eyes shut, I moved the mask away and set it in my lap, not letting go for all I was worth.

The silence that followed burned right through me _._

The clock on the wall ticked away, five seconds, ten seconds, fifteen. I kept my eyes shut, eventually seeing little mosaic patterns. It was only when I felt Jeremy's hand resting with a feathery touch on mine that I realised how hard I was clutching my dress. His other slipped through mine, sliding my mask from my grip. I dared to peer through my eyelashes as he moved it to the floor and set it there with the slow, fluid movements he might possess if he were working with a nervous animal.

Blood rushed through my ears, blocking the sounds of scurrying ballerinas and other staff in the hallways above us and of the rats in the cellars below. I tasted blood, felt it oozing down my tongue and past my teeth. Had I been biting my lip that hard?

I opened my eyes to check but noticed something else entirely.

Jeremy closed the space between us. His hands caught my cheeks carefully, holding them as lightly as he could. His lips found my forehead, and suddenly I was being kissed on one of the less severe burns that decorated my face without a mask to get in the way. Skin to skin.

I gasped, my hands flying from my dress to his shoulders. His lips, warm and chapped, moved against my brow ever so gently, tender caresses that almost lulled me into bliss. And yet I sat there, on the floor, as rigid as a statue, hardly able to think, let alone move.

Jeremy's fingers moved from my hands to my shoulders, his thumbs repeating the soothing circles he seemed to like creating. I stared at his neck, at the dirty shirt that was covered with horse hair.

When at last he drew away, he rested his forehead against mine, trapping his kiss there forever.

"Know," he whispered, as I stared at his closed eyes and long, dark eyelashes, "that it is an honest man who loves you, and will never, ever leave you."

I nodded, swallowing a round of tears. Jeremy kissed my forehead again and took my hand in his rough, warm ones. He stood and I followed him to the bed, where he sat me down and hunted through my bedside cabinet for a handkerchief.

"Your lip is bleeding," he said, wiping his own, a half-hearted attempt to lighten the mood. But I wasn't interested in jokes, my heart still trying to tell me it was all a lie.

"Do you stand by your promise, even knowing what you're about to bind yourself to?"

"I've stood by that promise ever since I knew _who_ I wanted to bind myself to, yes. This changes nothing. I swear on my soul."

He caught my lips in a sweet, chaste kiss, a soft caress of tender assurance.

"It's wrong for a practising Christian to swear on anything," I whispered, pulling back.

"Some people are simply worth swearing on one's soul for."

At that, I smiled and flopped into his arms, closing my eyes as his shirt tickled my broken skin. Jeremy pushed his nose into the waves of hair that fell down my back and cuddled me a bit closer.

"Will you marry me, Nikki?" he whispered into my hair. I glanced at the ring on my finger and felt a shimmering warmth in my abdomen. It was almost as if my stomach had come alive with the beating wings of butterflies and songbirds. Father Mansart was right.

"Yes," I whispered. "A thousand times, yes."

* * *

Jeremy didn't leave my room for the rest of the day, except to buy some sandwiches for dinner from the café. He did notice the looks he was given as he headed back to my room, he said, but that didn't stop him from spending the rest of the evening with until the night's performance. I watched the opera from Box Five, only half invested; my mind was elsewhere, fantasising about vague wedding details.

I was so lost in my own mind that I didn't realise the other presence in the box until it disappeared.

That night, as the witching hour chimed, I watched Jeremy pull my covers around his neck and wriggled into his arms. He pressed another kiss to my hair and snuggled against me, warm and comforting, even if his presence was quite strange at first.

"I love you," he whispered, playing with the ring on my finger absently. I smiled and turned in his arms to face him. He'd forbidden me to wear my mask for the night when I'd tried to put it back on, almost going to the point of smashing it against the wall when I refused. So now, maskless and lying in such close proximity to him, I blushed.

"Christine said you were worlds away tonight when she looked at your box," he continued, his head sinking into the plump pillows I'd permanently borrowed from the House on the Lake. I pushed some of the tousels behind his ear.

"I was simply thinking," I said sweetly.

"Nothing too dirty, I hope."

When I smirked, Jeremy went a deep shade of crimson.

"Cleanse your mind, woman!" he hissed, tapping my nose in a gentle scold. I burst out laughing and buried my face in his chest. "Can you not wait for marriage? Good Lord! Has propriety flown the coop?"

"Do relax, Jeremy! I was merely thinking of wedding details."

"Of course, and a certain wedding _night_ was not on your mind in the slightest, I presume?"

"I'm not completely without morals."

"Certainly not. And I am not in a bed with you."

"Oh, you make it sound worse than it is!" I kissed his forehead, and when his palm cupped my cheek and his index finger traced the scar that ran down my cheekbone - a nasty, red, fleshy thing that always disgusted me when I peered into a mirror - I leaned into his hand. Reaching over his shoulder, I turned the gaslamp down. "Goodnight, Jeremy."

* * *

That night, I learned that Jeremy Desrosiers could fall asleep in moments. Not a minute had gone by since he uttered his goodnight than his breaths had become deep and whispy. His hold around my waist slacked and I nestled into his warm side, feeling the rise and fall of his chest and listening to the quiet thudding of his heart.

The occasional glance at the clock assured me that I was the complete opposite of my fiancé. One o'clock. Two o'clock. Half past two. It wasn't looking pretty. Three o'clock. Jeremy's breaths turned to the odd snuffle. Twenty past three. Why wasn't I asleep?

 _Erik._

Oh, Lord, no, please.

I eased myself from Jeremy's arms and slipped out of bed, wrapping my dressing-gown around myself. The Angel squeaked on its wheels as I pushed it gently aside and I glowered up at his innocent face. Jeremy stirred but didn't wake; I left the statue slightly ajar so I could slip back in later without disturbing him further, and slipped into the shadows.

* * *

"Erik?" I hissed into the darkness, taking a dim candle from the wall and lighting a torch with its dying flame, so the light flared into life once more, scattering the darkness.

"Erik?" I said again, finding my way down the passages. The floor opened beneath my foot. I jumped away, heart pounding at the sight of the trapdoor. The _new_ trapdoor, that hadn't been there yesterday. With my heart in my throat, I continued on down the labyrinthine halls.

César greeted me with a fond whicker, accepting the old apple core I'd found in my apron pocket on the way. Ayesha mewed at his feet, snuggled in an old jacket of Erik's by the wall. I gave each a fond pat and walked on. They hadn't been fed yet.

Taking the sharp right that meant I didn't have to contend with the water in my work shoes, but so thick was the pitch black in the corridor that I stumbled. No candles had been lit, not one.

The House was gloomy when I walked into my room, and still a mess; I shouldn't have expected Erik to clean up the consequences of another tantrum. No music played from the parlour and only a few candles here were burning.

"Erik?"

I set the torch in a hold on the wall and stepped outside, peering about for the Opera Ghost.

The figure in full black was at the organ, bent over hundreds of sheets of music, furiously scribbling away. He didn't look up, didn't seem to notice my presence. But he knew, and he knew I knew he knew- Wait-

"Working hard?" I smiled, cautiously stepping down the stairs to meet him. He put his head in his hand and kept writing, gritting his jaw. "How's it coming along?"

"Quiet," he growled, dipping the quill and setting it back to the sheet. I buttoned my lip and squinted over his shoulder at the title.

 _An ode to an Angel._ I said nothing, but went to sit behind the organ with a hairbrush, combing through my hair. Erik stopped scribbling.

"Do you mind?" he snapped, catching me by surprise. The brush clattered to the floor.

I tutted and reached for it. "What?"

"Stop making such noise!" he fumed, gripping at his hair. "I can't hear!"

His hands went to cover his contorted face and the House fell silent once more.

I stood with a frown and intent, gathering my parchment sheets. "As you wish."

He snarled away my sarcasm and set about playing the first few bars of the score as I relocated to my bedroom. Spreading the sheets out in a linear fashion, I set to work arranging them in their correct order, noticing how some were out of place and some missing completely.

Erik hit a wrong note in the parlour and swore. I cringed. The note was followed by furious and random chords, screaming through the House like a tortured man.

"Erik!" I cried, sliding my legs over the edge of the bed. The broken poster creaked. I shot a wary glance at it, praying it wouldn't collapse the canopy on me. "Calm down out there! You'll break something!"

He hit the keys once more with an almighty crash and the House fell into silence. I froze on the quilts. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I pushed the sheets into a neat pile and let my head fall back against the pillows.

 _Christine Daae, what have you done to this man?_

 _Drip._

 _Drip._

 _Drip._

 _Creak._

"If you're going to shoot me," Erik snarled from outside, at which I looked up and frowned, "keep your hand still. And make it quick."

I pushed myself off the bed and peeked around the door into the parlour, although all it allowed me was the sight of Erik's black-clad back and the curls of hair at the nape of his neck.

"Is that you, Pierre?" a different voice said, suppressing quivers. "Man, genius or ghost, is it you?"

"I don't have to tell you anything," Erik snarled. I pulled the door open a bit more to see who he was talking to, but froze and drew a sharp breath.

There, in my parlour, at half past three on a Sunday morning and still in his work clothes from the night's performance, stood my fiancé, with a pistol aimed at the Opera Ghost in his trembling hand.


	36. Chapter 31 p2 How Imprudent You Are!

I shot out from my room, down the stairs two at a time and across the parlour to where Erik was rising slowly to his feet.

"Jeremy!"

"Hands at the level of your eyes, Monsieur," he was saying. "Come now, Monsieur, hands raised, further! Where I can see them!"

Erik growled, but he faced his uninvited guest and raised his hands in submission. Jeremy breathed a sigh that wasn't quite subtle.

I leapt for the gun, trying to push it from its aim. Jeremy pushed me down and caught my wrist. The bullet rattled in the barrel and I froze.

"How fitting that you should kill me with the pistol your father brought with him," Erik snarled, nodding at the weapon. In my panic, I caught his eyes for just a moment, begging him to stop. "I thought to give that back to you would have been a token of apology."

"Erik-" I started, but Jeremy shook his head.

"Why did you kill him? He was nothing but good to you! He treated you like his own son!"

"And then intruded on my private property with a group of savage men without invitation!" His hands lowered slightly.

"Hands at your eyes!" Jeremy cried, the pistol shaking.

"This is madness!" I shouted. My heart slammed against my ribs, sending shocks of pain through me. "Madness! Jeremy, please! Put the gun down! How did you find this place?"

"The same way his father did, probably," Erik said, his eyes never leaving Jeremy. "The portcullis passageway."

"How I got here is not important!"

Erik opened his mouth to snap, only the glare I shot him shutting him up.

"What do you mean, 'his own son'?" I hissed to Jeremy, whose mouth twitched in aggravation.

"Not now, dearest," he muttered back. Erik rolled his eyes.

"If you think I am oblivious to your words, think again. I have not become an all-knowing master from not perfecting my hearing, you know." Erik lowered his hands once again to fetch some music from the organ lid as Jeremy saw to it that I didn't snatch his duelling pistol from him. Jeremy pushed me aside and behind him and the pistol returned to its aim.

"The Good Book tells me to turn the other cheek, but God help me, I only have two! Hands up!"

Erik glared even harder, but his hands went up once again.

"Jeremy, what are you doing?" I cried, giving up my battle for the pistol. I clutched his arm instead and tried to pull him away. But he paid me no heed.

"Yes, indeed, Jeremy," Erik said, his half-bare face contorting into a ripe and taunting scowl. "Do tell!"

"Come off it, Pierre! Did you think I would not recognise you? I know my mother's glowing eyes when I see them!"

My mouth hung open. My grip on his arm slackened until my hand fell completely. "Jeremy..."

His eyes had ignited with a fire I'd always assumed was the reflection of various candles, and indeed it could still be, if it weren't for the fact that I'd seen the exact same blaze in Erik's eyes countless times before to be mistaken. I squinted at those eyes, the uncut, shimmering emeralds that I'd studied so often, only now realising how much I'd never seen within them. Yes, they glowed just like Erik's. Flecks of amber, which cut through the emerald, burned like wildfire.

So this was why that portrait had been so familiar.

"Why did you kill Papa? He was always good to you!"

I tugged on Jeremy's sleeve and raised myself up to his ear.

"You can't kill your own brother," I whispered, watching as his eyes softened slightly at my words. "No matter what he's done, you can't kill your own flesh and blood."

But he clenched his teeth and raised the duelling pistol again, his fingers whitening around the hilt and trigger. I swallowed my heart back into my chest.

"Jeremy."

"How imprudent you are," Erik snarled. Jeremy raised the gun back to him, his hand shaking. "Why did you enter my house? I never invited you! I don't want you here, or anybody!"

"Erik!" I said, turning to him with sharp indignance. He glared back at me.

"You heard me, Nikita. However great the service you did for Erik, he may forget it. He never wanted you in this house in the first place."

"Take that back!"

"Nikki..." Jeremy said, his voice wavering and hand shaking. The bullet rattled in the barrel and my throat went dry.

"Do you have what you want now, _mon frère_?" Erik let his hands fall and he slumped onto the piano stool. "A nice little family reunion before you marry my friend behind you? Ah, but you _are_ the son of Luc Desrosiers, aren't you, Jerry?"

"My name," Jeremy snapped, "is Jeremy Marie-Joseph Luc des Rosiers-sur-Garonne! Use it!"

"And I am simply Pierre, with no other name for me to claim. I am neither Desrosiers, nor Destler, nor de La Chance." He scoffed a humourless laugh and drew a menacing collection of notes from the ivory keys. "To hell with taking your father's name, after he dared come after me with the same pistol you're holding! Ah, but more the fool he! It was his hesitation that brought him to meet his fate so early. Yes, brother, he took one look at my eyes and went as white as a sheet!"

"And then you murdered the man who worked so hard to keep you alive," Jeremy choked, blinking back tears so fast it was a wonder he could see anything at all.

"I returned his body to you, didn't I? I might be hideous, but I was not hideous enough to deny him a funeral."

"This doesn't make sense," I moaned, dropping my head into my hands. "You-" I looked at my fiancé, "are _his_ _-_ " and to Erik, "brother. And _you_ killed _his_ father, who was not _your_ father, but you both share Madame Destler's eyes and other _habits_ , and I didn't know this _how_?"

I glared at Jeremy. "I was a maid in that house since I was six years old! I never saw you there! Not once!"

"Ah, but he was at his prestigious boarding school, was he not?" Erik scorned, turning in his seat to glower us in turn. I shot daggers at him, and if I'd had my knives with me, perhaps I would seriously have done so. "Yes, rich old Grandpapy couldn't very well leave his little friend without an education, despite Daddy Desrosiers being so naughty as to marry my poor, unhappy Mama. It was a shame to waste such money, don't you think, brother? After what your schoolwork proved?"

Jeremy flushed. "Shut your trap! We are only _half-_ brothers and you have no right to call me out on such things!"

I turned back to Jeremy. "You said you were expelled!"

"And I was! I wasn't good enough!" he protested. "He's trying to wind me up!"

"You never liked to admit your inadequacies, did you?" Erik said, so nonchalant all of a sudden that Jeremy went a darker shade of crimson until I thought blood would seep from his ears and eyes.

"Leave him alone!" I growled at him. Then, to Jeremy, "Why are you here? How did you know where to go?"

"A stagehand always knows what pieces are out of place," he replied. "If a set is even slightly misplaced, it can throw the entire scene. Actors stand in the wrong places, people appear out of doors that aren't there, the trapdoors don't work, anything could happen! The Angel in your room had been moved slightly, left ajar. I simply followed the path until I caught up with you!"

I groaned and let my head fall back into my hands. Why did all my plans constantly backfire?

"Are you going to kill me yet?" Erik said, his voice dry. "It's getting rather boring, sitting here and waiting for you to put that bullet through my chest, you know."

But I grappled onto Jeremy's right hand and wrenched the gun from his grip. "If you take one shot at him, I'll never marry you! You cannot shoot your brother!"

"Why not? He killed yours."

 _Vladimir?_

I stared at Erik, at the lasso that rested upon the organ, and back at Jeremy.

"I came for his blessing," he whispered. His hand curled around my cheek, but one glance at Erik set the scowl back in place. "I know next to nothing about your parents, and with Vladimir dead, that leaves only your friend 'Erik' who you always spoke about with such fondness! I'm dismayed to see that said fondness is so misplaced."

I folded my arms, careful not to touch the trigger in any way, and frowned at him. "I never told you he was the Opera Ghost!"

"You didn't have to," Erik butted in. "He knew from the moment he saw me at the Masquerade."

"You can keep your mouth shut, unless you want to give me your blessing!" Jeremy growled. Erik rolled his eyes, but I saw the thudding of his heart in his throat from where I was standing.

"Alright," he muttered, raising his hands in submission. "Alright. You win, my dear little brother. Go on then. Marry each other and live in perpetual happiness and love! Let there be rainbows and songbirds to fill the rest of your days in Toulouse or Rouen or whichever damned place you choose to make your Home Sweet Home."

I inclined my head at him, shooting him a harsh look. Was he mad? _I shouldn't answer that_.

Erik stood from the organ and paced to the hallway door, passing before us as he did so. Jeremy's arm snaked around my middle and pulled me close, his eyes never leaving the Opera Ghost.

"I trust Nikita will be able to show you back up to the dismal and dreary world of Paris," he said over his shoulder, opening the door and pausing on the threshold. "If not, my dear lady, feel free to push him into the same trap his first amour was sliced to pieces in. I won't hold a brother's grudge for it."

The door slammed after him.

Jeremy had frozen against me. I tugged his hand. "We should run."

He gave a long, breathy exhale and nodded. "Let's!"

And we did.


	37. Chapter 32 Foolish to Think

_Am I foolish to think I could ever be,  
_

 _will I never be more than I am today?  
_

 _I can see me as a man of respect,  
_

 _You could never detect had once been  
_

 _so heartlessly cast away._

 **~ Monty D'ysquith Nevaro**

 **A Gentleman's Guide to Love and Murder.**

 **Don't you just love it when you spend an hour editing (connected to the wifi, mind you!) and then Wattpad throws a hoo-ha and forgets to save them? Yeah. Me too. (I did my best to recreate what I lost, but it's a tad bit disheartening, so now I'm only half happy with what I was able to do with this chapter)**

* * *

With the dawn of the next day, I pulled my cloak hood further up and huddled into the warmest parts of the fabric, a thin defence against the biting cold wind that swept over Paris from the north today. The shadows of the towering church did nothing to warm me, and I hurried up its steps and across the mosaics in the floor to the doors, the Corinthian columns that guarded the entrance casting what little sunlight the January morning spared into more shadows. High above me, angels and saints, frozen forever in a picture of regal elegance, gazed proudly out at the city, which was already alive and thriving.

During one of his rambles, Jeremy had mentioned his devotion to the Catholic faith and had told me tales of listening to the kindly priest every Sunday at the Église de la Madeleine. It was not Sunday, but even so I stepped into the church and shucked off my cloak, not looking up until I had to.

The breath all but left my body.

As light and as cool as the Abbaye St Georges had been, that was how dark and exquisite L'Église de la Madeleine was. If it wasn't for the candles that shrouded the walls and columns, the winter morning would have plunged the church into darkness.

The long aisle that loomed before me, with rows upon rows of simple, wooden pews on either side, led to the statue of the Mary Magdelene, who guarded her altar with strength and grace, flanked by angels on either side. Hundreds of pious eyes watched her from above, and in the dome that almost reached the heavens, the Lord sat ruling his domain, seemingly awaiting her arrival.

I chewed at my lip, wandering up the aisle in my awe. Several people were already gathered, kneeling with heads bowed in prayer, not noticing my embarrassing display of amazement. Someone else left the confession box further along the wall and moved towards the pews at the front, where they knelt, head bowed like everyone else.

Deadening my footsteps, I slipped up the aisle until I reached the end of the pew where he sat. I set myself down quietly. Jeremy's eyes were closed, hands clasped so tight that I thought he'd cut himself with his dirty nails by mistake, and he mouthed the fervent words he was praying. It seemed so private that I bit my own lip, looking away as if he was undressing before me without knowing I was watching.

My gaze flitted around the church, always stopping at the same place each time. The Magdelene at the altar seemed so pure, so righteous and holy. Guilt settled at the bottom of my stomach, tighter than any corset I'd ever worn.

How had I slipped so far? And for what? To feel wretched now? It had worked.

Jeremy's hands went to his face, raking through his hair occasionally.

"Oh, dear God..." I heard him breathe, and finally, his hands slipped into his lap. I dared to glance over at him, just catching the sight of him jumping he turned to regard me in shock. "Nikki! What are you doing here?"

I gestured to the church. "It's a public building."

My voice was smaller than I would have liked. Jeremy managed to smile and slid across the pew towards me. He didn't dare wrap his arm around me like I would have liked, but I felt his hand rest on mine with a feathery touch all the same. My heart beat a bit faster and I stifled a sigh.

"And you're here because..."

"I was just seeking some advice."

"And did you get what you came for?"

He looked back at the altar. "More or less."

I nodded, watching as his thumb rubbed little circles on the back of my glove.

"Why didn't you tell me he was your brother?" I whispered. He didn't look at me.

"I wasn't sure of it. I had to see him, talk to him." He scoffed to himself and tapped the hassock with his shoe, which was falling to pieces at the toe. "So much for that."

"But a pistol, Jeremy," I hissed. "I never even imagined you'd know how to hold one, let alone wield it."

"What did you expect?" he replied, his voice equally as hushed. "Brother or not, he's the Opera Ghost, and as much as he'd probably like you to believe it, I'm not a fool."

I opened my mouth to protest, but he shook his head and squeezed my hand. "I'm going to work. Are you coming with me or staying to pray?"

I glanced back at the statue of the Magdeleine. "I'll come with you."

He nodded and let me lead him out of the pew. It was only as we walked down the aisle, when he took my arm in his and led me properly and when he squeezed my glove again that I began to crave our wedding day, when I could walk at his side in public without feeling so watched. And of course, I would have to send word to Father Mansart regarding the event. Surely Jeremy wouldn't mind if I asked to be married in the Abbaye St Georges.

It was as we walked through the great bronze doors, flanked by the watchful wisdoms of the Ten Commandments, and into the shade of the columns that I broke into a smile. Suddenly, being a wife didn't sound all that frightening.

I leaned against Jeremy's arm, falling into step with him as the city came alive around us.

* * *

I entered the Opera House on Jeremy's arm, having let him walk me back in time for our shifts. He helped me out of my cloak and offered to keep it with his on the cloak racks outside the scene shifting department.

It was only as I smiled and let him take it, stepping up onto my toes to press a light kiss to his lips, that a chorus of delighted cries echoed down to us.

"And so it starts," Jeremy said, though a smirk graced his lips. I frowned at him and turned my attention to the grand foyer.

"Nikki!" Beatrice's unmistakable voice echoed off the walls, and moments later, I found myself very nearly crushed to death in her vice-like grip. She drew back from the near-killer hug and grabbed my hand, almost crushing the bones. Christine stood just a few feet behind her, her own smile duller than Bea's.

She was thinner now, I was sure of it. Had those circles under her eyes always been so dark? I hated to admit I hadn't noticed that before.

"Come, Nikki!" Beatrice squealed, tugging me away. "Come with us! Nikki, move! You _must_ come and see!"

"What—?"

"Come _on_!" she insisted, handing my other arm to Christine, dragging me off between the pair of them. I looked back over my shoulder at Jeremy, who smiled rather awkwardly, trying to find the joke he supposed he was missing out on.

 _Help me!_ I mouthed desperately, but he simply waved his hand at me.

"I'll find you later," he called, moving away towards his department. I pulled a pitiful face.

"But I—"

"No buts!" Beatrice said as they hauled me down through the corridors to the costume department. I struggled against them, but Beatrice gripped my arm tight and I yelped. It was only once we reached the department that she finally let me go.

I stumbled into the room, immediately grabbed by a familiar pair of hands, and found myself being herded into the department by Madame Giry.

"You have quite the explanation to give," she said, marching me through the rows of tables lathered in dresses, waistcoats and pantaloons.

"What about?" I hissed, though my voice was lost amongst the throng of others. "Madame! I have work to do!"

With one hand keeping my mask in place as she pulled me along, I stumbled after her until she stopped me at a workbench. I blinked the room back to a standstill.

And then I stopped short.

There, on the bench, lay the dress from the old costume department, resewn and patched with the new material in places. It had, in short, been restored to its glory days. I reached out, in a sort of trance, and stroked a length of the front skirt. Beside it, the top half, also fixed, and my size. But perhaps the most notable thing about this dress was the card that lay on top, marked with childish cursive in blood red ink.

 _For Mlle de La Chance, with best wishes, upon the news of her upcoming marriage to Monsieur J. Desrosiers._  
 _Opera Ghost._

I clawed at the note, pulling at the stitching that kept a second part away from any unwanted, prying eyes. _I am sorry for my behaviour towards you and my half-brother. Do not deny him the joys he, as a man, deserves, because of my attitude._

Erik. I set the note down and looked over my shoulder at the three women left in the room. Madame Giry had no doubt cleared it for my privacy, save for three or four seamstresses who were under pressure to finish the leading costumes for Don Juan.

"When did these arrive?" I said. Beatrice's smile was the brightest of all.

"This morning! Oh, Nikki, I always knew you and Jeremy would someday be married! You have to invite Christine and me! We must be bridesmaids, you hear?"

My mind went blank for the rest of her rant. I stared at the old dress, imagining how another woman from the past had flaunted it on my stage.

It was beautiful. Layers of fabric, light on light, patterns threaded through it. The corset was magnificent, plain as it was, almost regally minimalistic. The sleeves were fixed just how I liked them on my formal dresses. Only Erik could have altered the dress I'd been so fixated on like this.

"Excuse me," I whispered, moving around Madame Giry and past the other women towards the door. Beatrice's words died off quite rapidly. She caught my arm as I made for the door, her grip not as tight as before.

"Kitty? Where are you going? Isn't this a marvellous surprise? Aren't you happy?"

I nodded and shucked her off gently. "Of course. If you'll excuse me, I must find someone."

Christine watched me go. It was only as I closed the door behind me that she finally spoke.

"Tell him I'm sorry, but I cannot attend lessons today."

Beatrice sent her a funny look. I disappeared before she could send any questions my way.

* * *

The only passageway to the House that was open was the kitchen one. I found Monkey Nadir stuffing his face with dried fruits and swatted him away. But as far as Erik went, the house was almost eerily silent.

It was only as I made to knock on his bedroom door that I heard the front door shut and the rustling of fabric. I snuck back up the hallway and peered into the conservatory from the kitchen. Erik hung his dark cloak on an empty peg on the wall and brushed his hair down. He glanced around, and when his eyes landed on me, he stoped, flexing his long hands against his sides

"Nikki," he said, his voice dry and precise as he pulled on a mask of collectiveness. "What are you doing here?"

 _I live here_ , I wanted to say, but for some reason, my throat had dried like a grape and I could only move my hands around in wide circles.

"To say thank you," I managed to whisper, clearing my throat.

Erik folded his arms, his eyes narrow. "For the dress?"

I nodded.

"Well, your mission is complete then." He dropped his arms and pushed past me into the kitchen, tipping the fruit bowl slightly and muttering something about sneaky creatures. "You can return to your lover now."

I watched with bated breath as he glared over his shoulder at me and moved to make himself a strong cup of tea, no milk, no sugar.

"Your statue impressions are admirable, Nikita," he said, his voice deep in his throat. "But the Louvre isn't hiring this season. And neither am I."

"Why didn't you ever tell me Jeremy was your brother?"

"Speak up," he said none too gently, as the pot whistled over the stove. "I'm going deaf in my old age. It's all that caterwauling Up Top."

"I said why didn't you tell me about Jeremy being Madeleine's son! He thinks she died in her sleep one night while he was working!"

"Jeremy, always Jeremy," I heard him mutter. Then louder and addressing me, "She did."

"Erik, the fire—"

"Smoke poisoning. She didn't realise until it was too late."

"But you—"

"You've asked enough questions!" he snarled, pouring his half-boiled tea into a cup and setting the pot back down on the stove with a clank. I winced. He drank it straight, eyes shut tight against the heat and bitterness, and wiped his mouth on his shirtsleeves. "I suggest, my friend, that you remove yourself from my house. Erik is not interested in entertaining you today. You're welcome to read in the library with me this evening if you wish, but I believe I've made clear that I pay you to work, not to annoy me with your extended lunch breaks and sporadic holidays. Good day!"

He said the last bit with such a thick layer of spite hiding beneath a civil tongue that I froze to the spot. It was only once he turned away and strode out into the hallway, shutting the door firmly behind him, that I caught the conservatory door and leaned against it.

 _You've failed him. We all have._

No. No, I hadn't. I pulled myself back upright and bit my quivering lip, shaking some sense into myself. Erik was simply stressed about the premiere. He was trying to live a fantasy and didn't understand why it wouldn't play out as he hoped; surely he'd expected Christine to be living with him by now, and if it hadn't been for the Vicomte, perhaps it might have been so.

I hadn't failed. I refused to believe it. I would simply need to step up my game to save Erik, before he damned us all. And himself.


	38. 33 Who Could Ever Have Dreamed of This?

Despite his earlier mood, it was Erik who helped me get ready that evening.

I stuck a hand out from behind my changing screen as the clothes I'd thrown over the top disappeared. A new set of petticoats pressed themselves into my ungloved hand, and as I took them, my fingers brushed against the cold, dead skin of Erik's hand.

"When you've finished," he said, rustling with something in the armoire, "I have a gift for you."

"You may need to wait a while," I replied, pulling my clothes into place and making sure they were just tight enough that I could still breathe and move. I yanked my bloomers on and reached for the small, cheap bustle he now handed me.

Finally, after half an hour behind the screen, I did the final lacings on my dress and stepped out. Erik sat in the armchair by the armoire, thoroughly engrossed in the newspaper I'd brought him. I reached for some hairpins and piled the waves of unruly and mostly tangled chestnut hair on top of my head. It was only when I at last went to put my mask and gloves on that I noticed he was, in fact, watching me.

"Yes, Erik?"

"Your present is over there," he said, nodding at the ottoman. I frowned at it and tied the mask lace into an untidy yet secure knot. "Consider it a wedding gift. I do believe it is a current tradition in Britain to give something of the sort."

I didn't point out my opposition to British customs now, after experiencing the thick smog of London that had ruined one of my violin bows as I played beneath Blackfriar's one evening, but knelt by the ottoman and carefully lifted the lid.

"It isn't much," Erik continued, folding the newspaper and leaving it on the armchair as I pulled out the first thing I saw. He stood and paced across the room to me. "Please. Allow me."

His cold hand slipped around my glove and he pulled me up next to him, taking the thick woollen garment from my hands. He shook it out and turned me around, draping and arranging it over my shoulders.

"It should keep you warm for a few years," he explained, popping my bonnet on and turning me once more to tie it at my chin. "You can be fashionable and alive at the same time."

"I suppose you'd like the updates."

"There is a certain scarcity of such factors in my life, I'll admit. Now, do you like your present?"

"It's a Paisley shawl," I noted, twirling one of the tassels. I looked up again to see Erik smiling down at me, his lips barely lifted in a classical Erik smile. I watched him for a long minute, loving how uncomfortable it made him. He cleared his throat, folding his hands before himself.

I stood up and threw my arms around his chest, huffing hard, and he froze.

"Thank you," I whispered into his waistcoat, the hard porcelain pressing against some of my more serious burns. He managed to pat my back curtly and pushed me away.

"Anytime. Now, scat, Kitty Cat."

* * *

"Ah! There you are!"

One of Jeremy's typical, broad smiles met me as I hurried out of the doors and into the busy square. He'd stopped a cab in the middle of the flow of riders, other carriages and pedestrians, and the footman holding the door open for him seemed impatient, his foot tapping constantly.

"I thought I might have to go without you."

I moved past him and made to climb into the carriage. He lifted his hand and I stared back down at it. He only smiled on, emerald eyes twinkling in the early evening light.

My glove slipped into his, snug and safe, and he helped me up into the carriage, tucking my dress in and climbing up after me.

With Jeremy aboard, his weathered little picnic basket on the seat beside him, the carriage jolted and the steady, familiar clip-clopping of horseshoes rang clear once more.

He didn't stay quiet for very long.

"I thought I might paint you," he said as we left the city. I looked up from my poetry book as he sorted through the basket and pulled out a little sketchbook, flicking through it to a blank page. "But then I thought, 'Mmm, no'. How could one explain hauling a canvas and easel into a carriage?"

"There are lots of painters in Paris," I said, vaguely noticing the trees that passed as the cab rattled along. "Besides, it would take far too long! It's getting dark enough as it is!"

"That's why I brought this instead." He tucked it into his jacket and pulled his felt hat from his curls, shaking it free of dust and horsehair. "Nikki, I must confess that a picnic is not all I invited you for."

I rolled my eyes. "You cannot propose a third time, dear."

He flushed and looked out of the window instead.

"Ah, yes, well, I assure you I do not have another scrap of jewellery left in my possession. You wear one of only two pieces my unfortunate parents left me; I doubt you'd very much be interested in a single pair of cufflinks."

 _Unless one could sell them for a moderate sum._ I bit my lip and tried to look interested. Beneath my mask, my skin itched and burned. It took all the strength I had not to pull a putrid face.

"But we must discuss the wedding." He sat forward in his seat and twirled his hat through his hands, fidgeting. "I had rather hoped we might be married in Rosiers. I sent a letter to my cousin some days ago requesting the local church—"

I snapped my gaze away from the trees outside. "We can't!"

He looked up in horror, eyes and mouth wide and agape. "I beg your pardon?"

"Be married in Rosiers!" I swallowed. "Forgive me, Jeremy. Do you remember what I told you about Father Mansart?"

He sat back in his seat, a knowing look spreading over his eyes. "I see. Is this what you would prefer? A wedding in Rouen?"

I nodded meekly, aware that I'd crossed several boundaries. My tongue would have to be tamed, and soon. No wife should speak out of turn.

How I _loathed_ the idea.

"Well, I suppose I'm a registered man in Rouen." He looked up from the jolting floor and caught my eyes, smiling after a moment or two. "I shall send word to Uncle Jean."

A flurry of butterflies unleashed themselves in my stomach. "Thank you, Jeremy! It means the world!"

"I make no promises," he said, raising his hand to me, yet smiling all the same. "Now, as you have chosen the venue, I shall decide the time. I'm aware my brother left a wedding dress for you — ask no questions, my dear, rumours spread like wildfire — and so with that little detail taken care of, shall we say... three weeks?"

My jaw hung.

I shut it almost as quickly, but not quickly enough that he didn't notice and shift about in his seat.

"That's the week of the premiere of Don Juan."

A nod. "It is. And I would be working that night, unless..."

"Unless?"

He sat back again, the flecks of amber streaked amongst his eyes glinting in the sunset. "This leads me back to what I wished to ask in the first place. Nikki, will you accompany me to Rosiers-sur-Garonne next week? I assure you, you will be in no better... hands than... Nikki, are you quite alright?"

I looked down at where I'd bunched my dress into bundles so tight, my gloves were beginning to stain with crimson.

I gave a small yelp and drew my nails out of my skin, ripping the gloves off and examining the wounds. Jeremy leapt across the carriage and seized my hand, pressing his handkerchief firmly on my palm.

"Good heavens, woman! What are you thinking?"

It was quite simple. The thought of being surrounded by well-to-do members of Jeremy's extended family in the magnificent house he'd often described, in the hopes of winning their favour - me, a poorly-paid opera employee with a face barely worth speaking of and a family so scandalous and, well, murdered in some cases - was not the most comforting idea.

I shrugged.

Jeremy lifted my hands to his lips and kissed them softly. I glanced at my gloves; they went back on in moments. Jeremy looked at me, confused and possibly hurt that I'd snatch myself away from him so sharply.

"We don't have to go," he whispered, moving back along the seat cautiously as if he were worried I might spook like a frightened animal. "I simply thought- well, I have no real wish to remain in Paris. I had rather hoped..."

But he shook his head and straightened his posture, replacing the timid shine in his eyes with something stronger, more powerful, something that reminded me so much of Erik, or of Madame, that I nearly shrank back. "No, no we _shall_ go to Rosiers. I will book a week off for the both of us. It won't particularly matter if we lose our jobs; I have more than enough confidence in my cousin to know he and Uncle Jean will offer me work at home, either in the stables or the vineyards. And you mustn't worry; it is not as if a married woman can seek employment, unless she is quite poor, which we will not be anymore."

I returned to looking out of the window, gritting my teeth. Being surrounded by the people he held dear, the expectations they would have of me, the looks they would shoot at my mask... It was the former Count of Rosiers that had disowned Jeremy's father. I had every right to expect they could do the same to him, and then where would we be? I refused to be reduced to the scum of the streets, seeking her next meal from unseemly employments!

"We _are_ going," Jeremy said, taking my hand gently. "You have nothing to fear, Kitty. I will be with you. Is it Erik? Is he the problem? You won't worry about him much longer, I vow it! Come our wedding day, I promise you will never have to see him again!"

His comforts fell on deaf ears and I stared hard out of the window. Jeremy was steady, a rock, a constant in an ever-changing world. But his brother was the polar opposite. What would become of Christine, of the entire Opera House, if I was not there to keep an eye on things? My friend had already been locked up for two days. I would not be responsible for that again.

Jeremy sighed. "I will offer you a deal," he said, turning in the seat. His hand caught my chin with a feathery touch. I found myself leaning into his hand and moving back to face him again. "I know you like to work in those. If you come to Rosiers with me and find you do not like it there, I will never bring you there again and you can remain working in the Opera House. If you find you do in fact like it, I will ask you to consider moving there with me once we are married. Agreed?"

I mulled it over for a moment. It seemed a fair plan, a good one perhaps. And yet—

"Will Erik be joining us?"

Jeremy hesitated. "Ah, so it _was_ he who gave you that shawl."

"A wedding present."

"I'm sure. If Erik- Pierre- whoever he is, can prove that he is more than a rage-filled, frenzied and violent murderer and stalker, whom we may trust in society, I promise I will not oppose his presence, provided he lives in a separate house."

"Then it is a deal." And I shook his hand.

* * *

"Rosiers-sur-Garonne..." Erik managed to say. His voice was so low in his throat that it was almost impossible to hear. He watched me over the rim of his teacup as I emphasised my smile and clapped my hands together, awaiting some further reaction. The fire in the library grate crackled away, sending dancing amber glows onto his hair and shirt. My skin tickled with the heat and I pulled several subtle faces. My hands twitched, and I found them at my face in mere moments.

" _Don't scratch_ ," Erik said, drawing a handkerchief from his tailcoat and tossing it to me. I pressed the stone-cold material against the perpetrator, the inflamed burn that ran across my forehead, relishing in the relief.

"Are you sure about this?" he went on. "You wouldn't even go to that dinner reception at Orléans that time."

"I think I can trust that you won't be giving anyone in Toulouse food poisoning, Erik."

He smirked to himself and took another sip. "Yes, but that was a clever little joke, you must admit."

"The Comte de Bourges didn't seem to think so," I replied, sitting in my chair some feet away from his and looking into the flames. "You are not coming with us _just_ yet, Erik. Jeremy has invited me to meet his family on the condition that if I like the place, I will consider moving there with him."

Erik swallowed audibly. "Nikki—"

"I accepted, but only if you could come with us after the wedding. And there's another thing! The premiere of Don Juan is in the same week as Jeremy has planned the ceremony. It will be—"

"Nikki."

I turned to him. "Erik."

He set his cup down with a clink against the saucer and rested back into his chair, flexing his hands. "I have no desire to up and leave this abode of mine in favour of trailing after you all the way down to Toulouse, and you know that. I do believe I've seen enough of this world as it is."

"But I—"

He held up his hand. "Is this another attempt to convince me to relent my word? You know I will not be fit to travel after the premiere if everything goes to plan."

My hands curled in on themselves. I unfurled them just as quickly – anger wouldn't convince him of anything, and would only make him more stubborn – and cleared my throat.

"What about Christine? Aren't you planning to marry her? You cannot make her a young widow, I won't allow it."

"Ah," he smiled, closing his eyes and tapping out a rhythm on the armrest. The glow of the fire illuminated years of scars and I winced. "The one exception to everything. Yes, my Christine..."

"So, you won't do it?" I leaned over my armrest towards him, eagerly awaiting his 'no'.

"If I am afforded the bliss of keeping a happy wife for just one week, I would be content to live for a thousand years in this accursed world." He opened his eyes then and simply gazed at the ceiling, where the light of the chandelier above seemed dim compared to the roaring fire before us. "And if Fate should condemn me once more, I shall spit its minuscule and rare pities bestowed upon me back in its face."

"You will not," I said, only noticing the threads of anger laced through my voice when it was too late. He watched me from the corner of his eye. "If she should leave you, you will simply come to Rosiers with us."

"Ah, but you have not yet seen it. How can you be so sure you will be content to live out the rest of your days there?"

"Jeremy can make even the depths of hell into the brightest of afternoons and he does not rely on mirror tricks to do so. He is a rose without thorns."

Erik turned back in his seat and returned to gazing at the ceiling. "Of course he can. Forgive me my inadequacies upon contrast to my dear brother. I shall retreat to my quiet solitude of gloom and despair."

I ignored him.

"So, you will come with us? Surely you don't wish to stay down here for the rest of your life!"

"Nikki..."

"Christine would like it in the south. I still can't get used to Paris's awful winters. If you're so intent on marrying her, at least give her some sunlight. Women need a lot of—"

" _Nikki_ ," he growled, laying a hand over his unmasked face and dragging at the already sagged skin. "Do be _quiet!_ Unlike you, who has been dusting a few paintings and columns to pass the time and going for carriage rides, _I_ have been running back and forth all day long like a messenger boy, and between rehearsals going drastically pear-shaped and Christine's voice being a difficult instrument to work with, I am quite frankly exhausted."

"You're exhausted because you haven't slept for a week. I suggest you retire to bed."

"Maybe I'll do just that," he muttered, heaving himself from his chair, causing several bones to crack as he straightened his skeletal figure.

"Maybe you should!" I retorted, and he cast a dry stare over his shoulder at me, before walking past and heading for the door behind me. It creaked open and, as he shuffled over the threshold, I drew breath. "You will consider it, won't you? With or without Christine?"

Silence.

The door closed.


	39. Chapter 34 We Actors Will Play

**Guess who's late uploading this, half an hour before the final episode of ITV's Victoria starts, on all three platforms this fic is on?**

* * *

True to his word, Jeremy presented me, exactly one week later, with a pair of train tickets. I didn't see Erik as I rose early on the following Monday morning, or as I dressed, packed a lunch and pulled my best mask on - a delicately designed cream one, patterned with red roses along the cheeks and jaw. I hoped beyond hope that it would make some sort of good impression on a family who was quite literally named after the rosebushes of Toulouse.

Erik had expressed nothing but disgust when I'd told him on Friday that I'd be travelling by train.

 _What's the problem with taking a carriage and team of horses?_ he'd scoffed. I'd ignored him, an endeavour which only led to not seeing him for the rest of the weekend.

Now, I was here at last. The train carriage was packed, and if it hadn't been for my insistence on getting to the station as early as possible, I was almost certain we wouldn't have a seat. The place was alive with noise: couples chattering, babies crying, women laughing, and the smell of tobacco from the gentleman reading a newspaper in the seat across the aisle had become almost normal by now.

I smiled at Jeremy from across the table. He was gazing out of the dirty window at the landscapes we passed through, eyes glazed over in thought, and his old and worn hat was beginning to fall forwards over his forehead. I stifled my giggles and looked back at my book, smoothing out my travel dress.

Erik had fallen in love with Blake's poetry almost immediately. Perhaps if Jeremy read one... they _were_ brothers after all.

"Jeremy?" I reached over and tapped his elbow. His head snapped towards me, the glassiness in his eyes vanishing. The hat fell into his lap.

"Is everything alright, my dear?" he asked, picking it back up and replacing it. "How long have you been calling me for?"

"Not long at all. I was just wondering whether you'd like to read some poetry."

His face drained of colour and he looked back out of the window. I frowned.

"Jeremy? Don't you like poetry?"

"On the contrary," he said after clearing his throat and smiling back at me, "I actually enjoy quality art. Who is it by?"

"My favourite poet," I smiled, touching the cover gently and then sliding it across the table towards him. "William Blake. Have you heard of him?"

"I haven't," he said, shaking his head softly. He picked up the book and opened it to the first page, eyes scanning the words. But then he swallowed and closed it, handing it back. "Beautiful, Nikki. I'm still quite tired; will you read it to me, _chérie_?"

I sat like a stunned rabbit, staring at the book like it was a hound on my scent. With a slow hand, I took it back and opened it once more to the first page. "If you wish..."

"Oh, yes!" Jeremy exclaimed, smiling. He sat back in his seat and closed his eyes. "Very much."

I knew the words by heart, yet I looked from my fiancé to the first poem with a blank mind. Jeremy peered at me from behind his eyelashes curiously.

"I'm sorry, is something wrong?"

My breath caught. I'd never heard him read anything aloud, had I? No, I was sure I hadn't! Even the menu at the café.

But he'd sent those letter to his uncle, I reminded myself. What I suspected couldn't possibly be. I frowned and stared hard at the words.

"My... my mother bore me..."

I glanced up at him as I read, looking back quickly when I found his intelligent green eyes focused on my every word.

"In the southern wild..."

I closed the book and let it flop onto the table, frowning out of the window, my chin on the back of my folded hand. Out of the corner of my eye, Jeremy smiled nervously at another young couple on the other side of the carriage. He shifted in his seat, rubbing his palms against his trousers.

"Kitty..."

I glanced at him, biting my nails. Jeremy pulled a slight face and took my hand, wiping it clean and slipping my glove back on.

"Are you alright, Nikki?" I looked pointedly at the book and he sighed.

"Is there something you aren't telling me?" I said.

"What?" He frowned deeper and let my hand go, sitting back against his seat. "No!"

"Then read it."

He scoffed. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me. Read the poem."

"Nikki—"

"Read," I said coldly, "the poem."

Jeremy's eyes narrowed and set.

"Enough, woman! I will hear no more of this poetry nonsense! If you wish to read it, then read it to yourself!" He glared at the passing countryside. "Do not bother me with your Monsieur Blake until we are in Rosiers."

I snatched the book from his hand when he offered it and set it on my lap. Then, in a very hushed voice, so the other people on the train could not hear, I said, "You can't read. Can you?"

But Jeremy took up his copy of _L'Époque_ with every bit of defiance I'd seen in a man and held it wide open before his face. My teeth ground together and I picked up my poetry book again. He truly was Erik's brother.

* * *

Neither of us spoke to the other until the train came to a slow, whistling halt in Toulouse. Jeremy was on his feet and bundling up his belongings even before the wheels had ceased to turn. With his newspaper folded carefully in his suitcase, his dark cloak reaching his knees and his hat set firmly on his head this time, he waited patiently in the aisle for me to put my book away, fasten my own cloak around my shoulders and take up my case. I closed my book in dismay. Even after the near thirteen hours of journeying, I would have loved to continue reading.

I took Jeremy's offered arm and let him lead me out of the carriage and onto the platform. We moved away from the crowd of disembarking passengers and excitable school children to a quieter spot where Jeremy checked our bags and made sure my cloak was fastened securely.

"Alright," he said at last, taking my arm once more. "Come with me. Uncle Jean's driver will be waiting just around—"

I dug my heels into a crack in the stone. Jeremy stumbled mid-stride.

"Nikki!" His hand flew from mine to his hat. He caught himself and stared back at me. "What are you doing?"

"Why did you snap at me?"

"I'm sorry?"

"On the train, about four hours ago, when I asked if you could read. Why did you speak to me like that?"

"Because it was highly impolite!"

He caught himself just a moment too late. The elderly couple on the platform shot us wry looks and murmured between themselves. I fought the urge to sneer; as if they hadn't argued at some point!

Jeremy blushed, bit his lip and tugged my hand, gently this time. "I'm sorry, _"_ he said. "I will tell you. But not here."

Fair enough. I walked by his side out of the station, keeping my head up even when the biting air of the north rushed down my neck. Sure enough, Jeremy was right: the carriage stood at the side of the road, painted with the obvious but simple family crest: a rose, a bridge. Rosiers-sur-Garonne. The dark horse flicked its head and whickered to Jeremy, ears pricked. Jeremy smiled to himself.

The footman opened the door for me and greeted Jeremy with a curt "Good evening, Monsieur." Jeremy helped me into the carriage, closing the door behind himself. I sat on the far side, staring at the red brick houses on the other side of the street, for which Toulouse was famous, pretending to be interested in their architecture.

But house-watching is a tedious hobby and I grew bored quickly. My fingers itched for the binding of my book, my mind for the pictures Blake created and the words he strung together. The little, leather-bound collection was in my hands before I knew it. I pulled up my feet onto the seat beside me and opened it at the bookmark.

Jeremy's chin rested against his fingers, elbow on the door panels. But his eyes wandered over my comfortable position on the soft, cushiony bench, and he opened his mouth.

"Nikki, I-"

I looked up, barely even lifting my head. He clamped his mouth shut again and I went back to reading. Silence. That was how the trip to the town of Rosiers-sur-Garonne was spent.

I relished it.

* * *

The coachman called a low 'woah!' to the horse and the clattering of shoes against the street ceased. I glanced out of the window. The house outside which we were parked certainly wasn't a turning point in architecture, and yet it's magnificent, dark facade sent a slight chill down my back all the same. It was built perfectly symmetrically, a grand house with plenty of windows and chimneys, from the twin staircases on either side of the heavy door, to the placement of each stone in the walls.

A shadow passed a window on the second floor. A light in the room flickered out, plunging it into darkness.

The great door to the house opened and so did the carriage door. The footman offered me his hand and I took it, stepping out into the chilly evening air. Jeremy passed my suitcase out to me and got out with his own, keeping his hat on with a gloved hand. He nodded at the footman and offered me his arm, which also carried his case.

I took it for civility's sakes, letting him lead me up the rest of the driveway towards the door. In the dimness of the evening, I hadn't noticed the shadow of another man standing there on the threshold, not until he stepped forward onto the balcony with a delighted cry and leant against the stone bannister, the only thing to keep his darkened form from falling.

"Hello, Jeremy!" he called, waving his cane high. Jeremy laughed and waved back, and when he met my gaze, he was bright-eyed and twenty years younger. I couldn't help it; I smiled along.

"Jeremy!" another voice cried. Someone dashed from the front door, down one of the flights of steps, across the drive with their shoes smacking against the loose stones, and tackled him from my hold, pressing kisses all over his face. A woman, with the most perfect, porcelain skin and long, flowing blonde hair. I grabbed his case as Jeremy caught her and spun her around in his arms, laughing for every second.

I wasn't jealous. I just couldn't seem to move. Or breath. Or bear to look away.

I cleared my throat instead. The woman turned to me, breathless, and swept her hair back from her face.

"Nicolette de La Chance," I said, setting his suitcase down and offering my hand, hoping I didn't sound as bitter as I felt. "Monsieur Desrosiers's fiancée _._ I don't believe we've met."

She squealed like a child. Grabbing my hand, she pulled me into an embrace tighter than any corset. "Of course! Nicolette! I've been positively _ecstatic_ thinking about meeting you!"

She pulled back to study me, her grip on my arms like a vice.

"Don't scare her off," the older man called. "She'll have enough trouble with our Jeremy; she doesn't need another eccentric family member smothering her!"

Jeremy hadn't stopped smiling since we'd stepped out of the carriage and it only grew. I followed his gaze to another gentleman, a younger gentleman in his evening wear, striding across the driveway after the woman with the same crunching, gravelly sounds as the stones moved beneath his feet.

At his feet, an energetic young dog, jumping around at the sight of us. It barked playfully, but I flinched all the same.

Jeremy, however, opened his arms and ducked to the floor. That was it; the dog bounded towards him with excited whines and smothered him with licks and sniffs. I managed a smile and turned back to the approaching gentleman.

"I do hope my highly-excitable wife is not causing my guests too much distress," he said as he walked over and pulled her to his side. "Calm yourself, Cossette!"

He offered me his hand and I took it, letting him kiss my glove. His eyes - deep and green, without a trace of amber, thank Heavens - looked up at me from behind thick, dark tousles, nearly black in the night. My breath caught again. Everything about this man was Jeremy, from the cheeks to the hair to the chin, to his very build, with the exception of the crooked set of Jeremy's nose and amber flecks in his eyes.

Desrosiers genes, I thought.

"Marius Desrosiers," Jeremy said, pushing the dog down and standing at my side. The dog nosed at my dress and I squirmed, hating how big and boisterous it was. "My annoyingly dashing cousin. Don't whisk her away from me, you imp! You have your own _belle dame._ "

He gestured to that exceptionally _belle dame_ , whose hands were clasped before her mouth and whose eyes were trained on us as if we were the very definition of a handsome couple. "And of course, Cossette, his amiable wife."

She broke free of Marius's hold and grabbed me by the hand, dragging me up the steps to the front door like an excitable child. I stumbled after her, losing my hat in the process. Hair flew about before my mask, blocking the gaps for my eyes and blinding me. Still, she tugged me on.

I pushed my hair back and found myself in a parlour of sorts. The heat from a huge open fire to the side washed over me, illuminating the dark panels that lined the whole room and the portraits that hung there in dark, orange flickers. On the far side of the room, a window stretched to the ceiling, letting in the twilight hues, which mingled with the firelight and lit the desk and chair set before that window in silver and amber.

Cossette pushed me into one of three large, surprisingly comfortable armchairs beside the fire, and rang a bell on the side cabinet. I caught sight of some frames and was still staring at the of two young boys on horseback, almost identical images, when a maid bustled in with a cup of tea and, after setting it down beside me, took my cloak from my shoulders and fetched a footstool from underneath the chair without a word. And then she was gone, as quickly and as quietly as she'd come.

I glanced at the photographs, trying to decipher which of the boys was Jeremy and which was his cousin, the dashing Marius.

Cossette pulled her chair closer to mine and sat there beaming at me. Just sitting there, smiling. The fire crackled. I looked away and adjusted my mask.

"I like your mask!" I whipped my head around to her again. She... what?

"You're the first," I said and she burst into a fit of girlish laughter, rocking back and forth in her seat.

"I like you already! It gets so annoying with just the men! We'll be the most amiable of companions, don't you think? Oh yes! You simply _must_ meet Cook! She's Papa Jean's best chef! Oh, my apologies, Nicolette. Papa Jean isn't my true father, that is quite obvious. But he is such a dear, he practically _is_ my Papa! I'm sure you'll find him quite lovely! We'll be like sisters!"

Cossette clapped in delight, her bright blue eyes shining like diamonds. I bit my lip and stared back at the fire. Was this how they expected me to speak? Would I have to drop my accent in favour of a more mannerly speech pattern?

I'd never had a sister. I wasn't sure I even wanted one. There had only ever been Erik and I, with Vladimir not the best example of an older brother yet always lingering around us, and Cossette, though lovely and the picture of a perfect wife, seemed quite childish, where I was unused to such glee.

"Cossette, do calm down!" Marius's voice resounded around the room, followed by the click of the door closing behind him. I looked up to see Jeremy pace over to a hanging mirror over the fire and comb his scruffy tousles into place. He caught my eye in the reflection and smiled, taking his seat opposite me at the other end of the fire; Cossette and her voluminous skirts had all but smothered the one next to me.

Marius took a cigar from the box on his desk and sat it its seat, backlit by the twilight and yet glowing in the firelight. Jeremy rested back in his chair, crossing his feet on his footrest and his hands in his lap. There was that fluttering feeling deep in me once more.

"When will supper be served?" he asked, picking his pocket watch from his coat and peering at it from half-closed eyes.

Marius laughed, taking the cigar from his lips. A cloud of orange smoke filled the air and disappeared in moments. "Wouldn't you like to know? Patience, my friend, patience! If you can find it within yourself to keep that stomach of yours under control!"

Jeremy pulled a childish face and slumped in his chair.

Marius caught my eye and smiled. "I wish you luck with him as your husband, dear Nicolette. You're going to be run off your feet cooking for him."

I managed to grin. However long it was, this was going to be a very long, awkward wait for me.


End file.
